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‘Well, what I mean to say–train’s due to start in about half an hour. He’ll be along at the station
now. I sent a fatigue party to look after him. Got to get his ponies aboard and all that.’
There were probably further explanations, but neither Elizabeth nor her aunt heard a word of them.
In any case, without even a good-bye to the Military Policeman, they were out on the front steps
within fifteen seconds. Mrs Lackersteen called sharply for the butler.
‘Butler! Send my rickshaw round to the front at once! To the station, jaldi!’ she added as the
rickshaw-man appeared, and, having settled herself in the rickshaw, poked him in the back with the
ferrule of her umbrella to start him.
Elizabeth had put on her raincoat and Mrs Lackersteen was cowering in the rickshaw behind her
umbrella, but neither was much use against the rain. It came driving towards them in such sheets that
Elizabeth’s frock was soaked before they had reached the gate, and the rickshaw almost overturned in
the wind. The rickshaw-wallah put his head down and struggled into it, groaning. Elizabeth was in
agony. It was a mistake, surely it was a mistake. He had written to her and the letter had gone astray.
That was it, that must be it! It could not be that he had meant to leave her without even saying goodbye!
And if it were so-no, not even then would she give up hope! When he saw her on the platform,
for the last time, he could not be so brutal as to forsake her! As they neared the station she fell behind
the rickshaw and pinched her cheeks to bring the blood into them. A squad of Military Police sepoys
shuffled hurriedly by, their thin uniforms sodden into rags, pushing a handcart among them. Those
would be Verrall’s fatigue party. Thank God, there was a quarter of an hour yet. The train was not due
to leave for another quarter of an hour. Thank God, at least, for this last chance of seeing him!
They arrived on the platform just in time to see the train draw out of the station and gather speed
with a series of deafening snorts. The stationmaster, a little round, black man, was standing on the line
looking ruefully after the train, and holding his waterproof-covered topi onto his head with one hand,
while with the other he fended off two clamorous Indians who were bobbing at him and trying to
thrust something upon his attention. Mrs Lackersteen leaned out of the rickshaw and called agitatedly
through the rain.
‘Stationmaster!’
‘Madam!’
‘What train is that?’
‘That is the Mandalay train, madam.’
‘The Mandalay train! It can’t be!’
‘But I assure you, madam! It is precisely the Mandalay train.’ He came towards them, removing his
topi.
‘But Mr Verrall–the Police officer? Surely he’s not on it?’
‘Yes, madam, he have departed.’ He waved his hand towards the train, now receding rapidly in a
cloud of rain and steam.
‘But the train wasn’t due to start yet!’
‘No, madam. Not due to start for another ten minutes.’
‘Then why has it gone?’