At length Kesri hit upon the idea of setting up a wrestling pit. This was a common feature in the sepoy lines of military depots and cantonments, many of which organized regular tournaments, within and between battalions. Kesri had himself continued to wrestle throughout his military career; for a few years he had even reigned as the champion of the Pacheesi. He knew that the sport helped to strengthen bonds within units and his youthful memories of the akhara told him that it was especially likely to do so in a situation where the participants were strangers to each other. He did not expect that Captain Mee would object — he was one of the few British officers who himself entered the pit from time to time — and he was right. The captain declared the project to be a whizzing idea and obtained the necessary permissions within a week.
To dig a more or less satisfactory pit took only a day or two, and then Kesri himself took on the role of guru for the first volunteers. The effect was exactly as he had hoped: the men joined in enthusiastically, glad of the distraction, and there was a sudden rise in spirits. Soon the whole company was seized by a wrestling mustee and each platoon began to field teams to compete against each other.
Despite these heartening signs, one basic problem remained unchanged, which was that the volunteers still had no idea where they were going. This gave rise to all kinds of unsettling rumours: they would have to fight savages who ate human flesh; they were to be sent into a waterless desert; and so on. To combat the speculation Kesri began to talk to the NCOs about what seemed to him like possible destinations: Lanka, Java, Singapore, Bencoolen and Prince of Wales Island in Malaya. Sepoys had campaigned in all of these theatres and Kesri had heard innumerable stories about them from his seniors. But when Maha-Chin — China — cropped up he derided the suggestion: who had ever heard of sepoys going to China? That country lay far afield of the ring of territories where sepoys had been deployed in the past. The very name Maha-Chin suggested a realm that was unfathomably remote: what little he knew of it came from wandering pirs and sadhus who spoke of crossing snow-clad mountains and freezing deserts. The idea of a seaborne campaign being launched against that land seemed utterly absurd.
*
December was Calcutta’s social season, and thanks to the Doughties Zachary received a fair number of invitations to Christmas celebrations, and even more for the arrival of the New Year — 1840. Mrs Burnham was also present at some of these events and when they happened to come face to face they would exchange perfunctory greetings, barely acknowledging one another.
But her presence always kept Zachary on his toes: he knew that she would be watching him covertly and that there would be a detailed post-mortem later, in which he would be taken to task if he had lapsed in any way from the best standards of sahib-dom in clothes, manners or deportment. Sometimes, rarely, she would offer a few words of praise and he would lap them up eagerly. Every word of approbation made him hungry for more; nor did it diminish his appetite that he could never be sure whether she was teasing or in earnest.
On New Year’s Day their paths crossed briefly at a tiffin and that night, in the boudoir, Mrs Burnham said with a laugh: ‘Oh Mr Reid! You’re becoming quite the sahib, aren’t you? Soon you’re going to be so perfectly pucka you’ll turn into a brick. That cravat! The fob!’
‘And the suit?’ he said eagerly. ‘What did you think of it?’
Somewhat to his chagrin, this made her giggle. ‘Oh my dear, dear mystery,’ she said, cradling his face in her palms, ‘there is not a suit in the world to match the one you were born with. And now that I have it in my hands, I’d like to slip into it myself …’
As a prominent hostess Mrs Burnham herself entertained regularly at home, but it was made clear to Zachary that he could not expect to be invited and would do well to stay out of sight. When forewarned he would usually go into town or make other arrangements. But sometimes he would get busy with his work and forget: thus it came about one day that he was laying down some deckplanks when he noticed a long line of gharries and buggies rolling up the driveway. Only then did he remember that Mrs Burnham was holding a levée that afternoon.
It happened that he was working in a part of the budgerow that was hidden from the house so he decided that there was no need to retreat to the interior of the vessel as he sometimes did when Mrs Burnham was entertaining. He stayed where he was, doubled up on his knees, hammer in hand.
He was hard at work, with his back to the vessel’s prow, when he heard a voice behind him: ‘Hello there!’
Leaping to his feet, he turned around to find himself facing a flaxen-haired girl, of about seventeen or eighteen.
‘Don’t you remember me, Mr Reid?’ she said, with a shy smile. ‘I’m Jenny Mandeville: we danced at the Harbourmaster’s Ball — a quadrille, I think. You said to call you Zachary.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ He glanced down at his soiled work-clothes — scuffed breeches and a sweat-soaked shirt — and made a gesture of embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry; I’m not dressed for company.’
She gave a tinkling laugh: ‘Oh I don’t mind in the least! What you’re doing looks most diverting. Can I try?’
‘Why yes, of course. Here.’
She gave a little cry as he handed her the hammer. ‘Ooh! It’s heavy!’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Not if you hold it right. Here — let me show you.’
He took hold of her palm and closed her fingers around the hammer’s wooden handle.
Their hands were still joined when another voice cut in: ‘Ah! There you are, Jenny! The mystery of the missing missy-mem is solved at last!’
They looked towards the foredeck and found a glowering Mrs Burnham standing there, with her fists resting on her hips; despite her dread of sunlight, she was, for once, devoid of either a hat or a parasol.
The girl snatched her hand guiltily away. ‘Oh Mrs Burnham!’ she cried. ‘I was just looking …’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs Burnham tartly, ‘I can see what you were looking at. But it’s time for you to be off now — your parents are already in their carriage.’
Without a word to Zachary, both women hurried off, leaving him standing foolishly in the gangway, hammer in hand.
It had been arranged between Zachary and Mrs Burnham that he would come to the boudoir that night — she liked to have him visit on nights when she had been entertaining — but he was so upset by the brusqueness of her manner that he decided not to go. He went to bed early and was sleeping soundly, sheltered by his mosquito net, when the door of his stateroom flew suddenly open. He woke with a start to find Mrs Burnham standing in the doorway, lamp in hand: her expression was like none he had ever seen before — her face was contorted with anger and her eyes were ablaze.
‘You blackguard!’ she hissed at him. ‘You vile chute-looter of a luckerbaug! How dare you? How dare you?’
Leaping out of bed, Zachary pushed the door shut. In the light of the lamp he saw that she had not changed after her levée and was still wearing the same dress he’d seen her in earlier.
‘You filthy cheating ganderoo …!’
‘Mrs Burnham — calm down.’ Taking the lamp from her hands he led her towards the bed. ‘And please! Lower your voice.’
‘Oh how dare you?’ she cried. ‘First you flirt with that slam-merkin of a girl, and then you keep me waiting? How dare you?’
He had never before seen her in such a fury: he kept his own voice down so as not to further incense her. ‘I wasn’t flirting with her,’ he said. ‘It was she who came looking for me.’
‘You’re lying!’ she said. ‘You’ve been seeing her behind my back. I know you have!’
‘That’s not true, Mrs Burnham,’ he said. ‘This is the first time I’ve spoken to her since the Harbourmaster’s Ball.’