The Dark Horse by Rumer Godden Page A

mine,’ said Sister Mary Fanny, ‘when I think of the thousands… ’
    â€˜Well, you’re not going to do them any good if you get bronchitis,’ said Sister Ignatius, and Mother Morag intervened, ‘To help people, Sister, you must keep reasonably well yourself,’ but she knew only too well what little defence a cotton shirt or a thin muslin sari or a toddler’s tiny jacket that only came just past the navel was against the chill and, for the ‘poorest of the poor’, she wondered which was worst – the heat or the deluges and dankness of the monsoon or the cold? But at least, for most, the sun was no longer an enemy; humans and beasts alike could bask in it at midday and in the afternoons; its light had a soft golden quality that enhanced the colours in everything from the scarlet and gold of the Viceroy’s Bodyguard to the delicate shades of the imported English annuals that flowered in the gardens of the – by Convent and Indian standards – rich. ‘Never thought to see sweet peas in In’ja,’ Ted said, as he had said of the violets.
    It was a time of mixed flowers: in Calcutta’s Chinatown narcissi were sold in Chinese porcelain bowls filled with gravel and chippings; in the gardens, with roses, petunias and pinks, the tropical flowers Ted had marvelled at still bloomed and there were new ones: the pink and white sandwich creeper that festooned walls and gateways and on the stable’s lawn frangipani trees blossomed into their strange temple flowers that looked almost chiselled in the thickness of their petals, growing without leaves directly on bare thickened branches. Ted had never smelled anything like the headiness of their fragrance.
    Unknown to him, Calcutta’s ‘season’ was in full swing. Though no longer the capital of India, it was still a city of importance with its own Governor, the Governor of Bengal, but in December and early January the Viceroy came from Delhi and the old Palace of Belvedere, with all the splendour of its marble terraces, sweeps of steps, its state rooms and park, was opened. On state occasions both sets of Excellencies drove out in four-horse landaus with postillions and an escort of Bodyguards. The roads were spread with sand to make the tarmac less slippery for the horses, so the gorgeous equipages whirled along almost soundlessly, leaving a memory of brilliant uniforms and glittering metal and a cloud of dust which, every year, brought an epidemic of ‘Calcutta’ sore throats.
    It was now that the most important races were run, including the Viceroy’s Cup on Boxing Day. The All India Polo Tournament and the Golf Championships were held, and there were Balls, both at Belvedere and Government House; invitations were vied for. There were private Balls too: the Vingt-et-Un given by twenty-one of Calcutta’s promising young bachelors and the even more exclusive Unceremonials, the Senior or Burra-Sahib’s Ball. Invitations to these could not be vied for; guests were asked – or not asked.
    It was a lively time – for a few. Wives and daughters arrived from England, Scotland, Europe or the hills. The men’s English suits and dress clothes were brought out from the airtight tin boxes where they had been stored to be safe from white ants and the mildew of the monsoon; though hung out in the sun, the lounge and morning suits, dinner jackets and ‘tails’ still gave out the scent of mothballs.
    There were dinners, brunches on Sunday mornings after riding; often four or five cocktail parties had to be attended on the same night.
    All this concerned John only over the racing. He could not bring himself to watch the polo. ‘Watch! You should be playing,’ protested Bunny. ‘You’re a six handicap man, for heaven’s sake!’ John did not answer and, ‘You would be welcome, John.’ Bunny was watching his friend’s face. ‘No, thank you,