After about ten months I sensed that the nuns had started to talk about me. They would suddenly stop conversations when I came within earshot and sometimes I saw them looking at me when they were talking earnestly together. Then came the day when I rounded a corner and almost walked into two of the sisters, and as they started and looked guilty I ran through my mind the sentence that I had interrupted:

  ‘She’s young but she’ll get used to it.’

  I had a friend called Gita and she and I discussed what ‘it’ might be. I thought perhaps I was going to be given some new demeaning task to perform, but how could my age be relevant if that was the case? So it went on until about a week later I was summoned to the Mother Superior’s office.

  The only time that such a summons had proved to be good news was on the day I was able to return home from my previous school all those years ago. At the convent school my subsequent and fortunately rare visits to Sister Clotehelde’s office had always involved some disciplinary or behavioural issue where the ordinary sisters had felt that a greater punishment than they could impose was necessary. No similar summons had previously been issued at the Little Flower School and it was with considerable trepidation that I closed the door behind me and stood before the dark wood desk with the crucifix standing on it.

  ‘Now, Ann, you have started quite well here at Little Flower School but we have to think of your future. Your mother has no financial support and it would be difficult for a job to be found for you in the village where she lives. Anyway it would not be right for you to spend your days living in the foothills of the jungle and planting rice in the fields. I have been pleased to note your progress in domestic tasks and the sisters tell me of your skills in sewing and cooking. We have discussed your position and I am very pleased to say that a solution has been found.’

  I could not work out where the conversation was going or what this solution could be. I knew that some children had left the school at fourteen and I was now fifteen, but I had hoped to stay on for another two years and improve my typing in order to pass my exams in shorthand and typing and become a secretary. I was dismayed at the thought that I might have to stop my studies, quite apart from again having to leave new-found friends.

  ‘You are fortunate to have had an offer of marriage.’

  I can only remember that I gave an involuntary cry, my hands to my mouth, and heard her next words in a swirl of panic.

  ‘He is a typist to the Bishop and he works at the Bishop’s house in the town. Our enquiries lead us to believe that he is very hardworking and a good man. He is only thirty years of age and in need of a wife and is very impressed with your credentials.’

  ‘No! No! I don’t want to be married!’

  ‘Now listen to me, Ann, it would be both ungrateful and unfortunate for you not to accept the offer. I am sure it will work out for the best.’

  I could not help myself, I was crying and shouting out and then I remember throwing myself on my knees at the side of the desk.

  ‘Please, you can’t make me – please, No!’

  Through my tears I could see the Mother Superior’s thin lips draw together and heard her say that I was to go outside and think about what she had said and that she would speak to me tomorrow. I must have run from the room because the next thing I remember was being in the dormitory, lying on the bed and wondering what was to become of me. The age of consent in India was twelve, and fourteen was an age at which arranged marriages were not uncommon, but in my wildest imaginings I had never dreamed that the school would propose such a thing for me. Surely they could not really mean it?

  Suddenly I thought of Miss Dixon and I managed to sneak out of the school gate to find a shop where they allowed me to use their telephone – Miss Dixon had the luxury of a private telephone so I was able to speak to her. She heard my tearful entreaties for help and said immediately that she would contact some other Anglo-Indian friends that I had met and discuss what could be done. She said she would then contact the school and make such objections as she could.

  I lay awake, horror struck at the thought that the sisters were trying to marry me off to a stranger twice my age. As my sleepless night wore on I went over the situation in my mind again and again. I was without qualifications and in the fiercely competitive world of Indian employment this spelled disaster in the job market. A single girl without sponsorship or support was not easily accepted in society and would be at risk. My prospects of a career seemed at an end unless the school would change its mind, indeed the whole course of my life would be changed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I did not sleep that night. The next afternoon I was summoned back to the Mother Superior’s office. Standing behind her and to her right, as she sat imperiously at her desk, stood a small man wearing a tight suit, shiny with wear. I was told that this was the man who had proposed marriage.

  I refused to look at him – I repeated that I did not wish to be married – I said that I wished to continue with my studies. There was a silence and I was asked if I had anything else to say. I hung my head, determined not to raise my eyes.

  ‘You need not think that your Anglo-Indian friends can help you,’ Mother Superior said. ‘I am the person who decides these matters, and my decision is final. Again, I ask you to agree to this marriage.’

  I could not trust myself to speak, and just shook my head.

  I was escorted from the room.

  The next day I was back in front of the Mother Superior’s desk.

  ‘Ann. You have been disobedient. We have discussed your position. It has been decided that you must leave the school. We can no longer offer you education here. I have here a one-way ticket to Digboi. It is for tomorrow morning. You will be taken to the station after morning assembly.’

  I had feared that my refusal would have dire results, but not so soon and not so dramatically. I felt sick with fear at the future but was determined not to show my terror to the sisters. I walked out of the room with as much dignity as I could muster.

  The next day, blinking back my tears, I packed up my possessions, said goodbye to Gita and the new friends that I had made and walked out of the gates of the Little Flower School for the last time.

  It was only a short distance to Dibrugah station and there by studying the train timetables and speaking to the man in the station office I found that my ticket was valid for travel for three days. I resolved that I would seek protection and advice from Miss Dixon: although she had not been able to prevent my expulsion from the school, she must surely be able to help me in some way. Carrying my heavy case I walked the three kilometres to the house where I had stayed and where I had been so happy. It was dusk. I was terrified that Miss Dixon would be out and hugely relieved when she answered my anxious knock on the door.

  I stayed at Miss Dixon’s house for two nights. She had to go to work each morning so I simply stayed at home and made myself useful by cleaning and preparing a meal for her return. I had repeated my tearful tale to her the first night but I was exhausted and so no discussion took place. The second evening, after I had cleared the dishes away, we sat at the table and discussed what I should do. To my dismay Miss Dixon said that I must return to Pengaree. She said it was wrong to deceive my mother, and that whilst she would make enquiries herself, she was not sure that she was going to be able to help. In the meantime I must go home and confess what had happened, and hope that some help could be found. She was kind but very firm.

  So the third day saw me back studying the timetables at Dibrugah station. After a two-hour wait the train for Tinsukia where I could would need to change trains for Digboi pulled in, enveloping my stricken face in steam. I saw no alternative to going back to Pengaree – but what was I to tell Mama?

  As the train continued its ponderous journey my brain raced. My mother would be horrified if she knew that I had been evicted from school: all the ten years of separation and sacrifice would be seen to have been wasted. On the other hand I could not see that I could deceive her, I had no means of support and so I would be forced to live at home. Assam was not a place where a single girl of only fifteen could safely live on her own or find accommodation without help. Was I destined to become a village girl and plant paddy in the fields for the rest of my life?

  When I reached Digboi I spent many hours trying to find a lift from the station to Pengaree. At last I was fortunate to find a truck returning to the tea estate. I was quiet as the driver tried to make conversation in the noisy cab as we lurched over the broken surface of the road. I thanked him on arrival and soon, having set off on foot down the familiar jungle track, I reached the river which I used to cross on Dhrin Babu’s raft of logs, a wooden bridge now enabling me to walk across towards the village. The boatman was still there in case the rains made the bridge impassable and he greeted me happily but I responded in monosyllables to his friendly enquiries as to my health.

  Nervously I walked into the village. When I saw Mama my intentions of telling her the truth vanished: I did not have the courage to do so when she was so happy to see me. I blurted out that I was awaiting final examination results and that I had been allowed to return home in the meantime. She took this at face value and bustled about preparing food and sending out messages to friends and relatives inviting them to join in a small feast to greet the return of her successful daughter. I was churning inside, but did my best to answer the many questions and respond to the simple good wishes of the community.

  ‘For how many days are you staying?’ Caught up in my deceit I stammered that I would be at home for nearly two weeks. To my relief no one thought to challenge me that this was a strangely long time during the normal term, and the moment passed.

  My unexpected homecoming was a source of conversation in the village but this was quickly overtaken by the dramatic events of the following day. I heard a great commotion and went down the track to the main clearing to find out what was happening. I was told that a rogue elephant had been reported in the area. The village houses were flimsy and vulnerable, as were the crops upon which everyone relied. Parties of villagers were being dispatched to guard the edges of the fields in the hope of distracting or frightening off the intruder.

  Fortunately our village escaped but the very next day the neighbouring Singpho village was attacked by the elephant which, completely out of control, smashed into the central clearing, trampled three huts and killed one of the village elders. The rogue beast had now retreated into the edge of the forest but could be heard crashing through the trees and it was feared that he would shortly return and wreak further death and destruction.

  The Europeans at the Pengaree tea estate had guns, and a deputation had been sent to them but it seemed that the planters were not keen to take on a task that they might have regarded as routine thirty years earlier: a rogue elephant was highly dangerous and they decided that a specialist was needed to cope with such a task. Messages had been sent and help was said to be on its way.

  Whilst there was much weeping and lamentation in the next- door village, and much apprehension in ours, the next rumour we heard was the cause of no little excitement and anticipation. It was that a famous and highly skilled hunter, a man known as the Elephant Boy of Tea, was on his way.

  It was years later that I heard the full story of the Elephant Boy, so called after the hero of the film in which a child had survived in the jungle, rather like Mowgli in The Jungle Book. The story I heard was that a Major-General Sir Arthur Nuttall of the Gurkha Brigade had a grown-up son who had married and was then posted to Assam. He had subsequently become estranged from his wife on her deciding to return to England, leaving their small son Arthur Nuttall, the general’s grandson, in his father’s care. Unfortunately the father died and the white child or baba was raised by bungalow servants in their jungle village. The boy became an expert in kheda – elephant training – and a talented shikari or elephant handler. After years in the jungle, living as a native boy, he fell ill and was taken into the local estate where he was seen to be white and immediately transferred to the tea estate hospital.

  The boy was a child of the jungle village, his friends were elephants and tribesmen and he had neither education nor knowledge of European customs or way of life. Nonetheless the tea estate management decided that it was an unacceptable situation for a white child to be in and therefore arranged that the boy, Arthur, should attend St Paul’s School in Darjeeling. It was soon clear that he was a total misfit. Whilst he quickly absorbed the English language and Western culture he did this under protest and exhibited a violent temper. Incident followed incident and eventually he was compelled to leave without finishing his final studies, whereupon he returned to the jungles of the Naga Hills.

  Fortunately the rapid expansion of the tea industry meant that contractors for jungle clearance were in great demand. Clearance meant elephants and the wild young man spoke their language. Thus it was that Arthur Nuttall came out of the jungle and was put in charge of the working elephant herd of a major contractor. He was in his element but again his fiery temper was his downfall and he lost that job and became a temporary ticket collector on the railways. Finding out that he was not being paid the proper rate, his violent reaction forced his resignation. Now he started all over again at the very bottom of the tea estate world, as an apprentice at Moran tea estate. ‘Nutty’ Nuttall, as he came to be known, again flourished, finished his apprenticeship and became a valued, if occasionally troublesome, planter. He was popular with the workers on the estate being fluent in Hindi and Assamese, and was quickly promoted, eventually becoming Acting Superintendent of Moran Tea Company.

  During the war the Japanese air force bombing was widespread and their infantry forces moved into the Naga Hills causing many planters to evacuate, including the Superintendent of the Moran Company. Foolishly Arthur Nuttall, as Acting Superintendent, spread the rumour that his senior had run away; when the truth came out yet again Arthur was out of a job. Managing to find work with the Makum Tea Company in 1944 he once more achieved promotion, was transferred to Namdang Tea Company and was billeted in Bogapani.

  Here the wheel turned full circle. Arthur was asked to destroy a rogue tusker which was creating havoc at Bogapani railway station. He confronted the animal and instead of shooting it simply talked to it, finally leading it away. It seems he had noticed faint chain marks on the elephant’s feet and so reasoned that it was not wild but would understand mahout’s language. The myth that he could communicate with wild beasts started then and from that moment his reputation as a master and hunter of elephants was made. So it was that he came to be on the way to Pengaree.

  A huge elephant, thickly coated with mud, a houdah on its back with two white people looking out, passed our isolated property and lurched down the narrow track towards the cluster of village houses. I watched the tallest of the two look in my direction. I ran down the path after the elephant and reached the other houses as it knelt and the two men were helped down. They were dressed in khaki and as they stepped out they were greeted by the headman and given directions by the excited villagers. Three of our best hunters or shikars from the village were selected and given ammunition holsters and other equipment to carry including the big elephant gun. I saw that the taller man, who was Arthur Nuttall himself, was handsome in a rugged sort of way. He wore a revolver at his hip and carried a lighter gun. Climbing back into the houdah with the shikars trotting alongside the stalking party set off into the jungle.

  It was five hours later, as dusk was falling, when the group returned. News had travelled ahead and we had already heard that they had been greeted and fêted in the neighbouring Singpho village. Our village congratulated them similarly, the native hunters reporting in boastful terms that the elephant had been killed. Long and voluble descriptions of the hunt were being given as the Englishman smiled at the outpouring of thanks, threw away his cigarette and went to climb back into the houdah. Suddenly he saw me and seemed to hesitate. He called over the headman, the Gaon Bura or village elder, and they had a conversation as they looked in my direction. I was nervous and ran back to our house, knowing that the elephant carrying them would soon be passing by.

  The next thing I knew was that the elephant had stopped nearby and the Englishman and Gaon Bura were approaching Mama’s house. I was being beckoned to join them.

  I now know that Arthur Nuttall had noticed me because of my fairer skin and particularly because I was wearing the clothes in which I had returned from the school. I suppose I stood out in this remote and cut-off community and I could understand that he had seen this as unusual. Mama was overcome with excitement as she went to greet the distinguished guest and bustled about to prepare some chai.

  The Englishman started to address me in Assamese. To his initial surprise I was able to reply in English and he soon discovered that this was because I had been at a convent school. He asked why I was in the village. It was fortunate that we could talk in English since Mama did not know what was being said. I therefore blurted out the recent events that had led to my being expelled from the Little Flower School. By now it was clear to Mama that I was distressed and that Mr Nuttall was being sympathetic; but instead of telling her the truth I said that I was telling him of my early life and Mary’s death, which seemed to satisfy her.

  Mr Nuttall said that he would see if he could help, salaamed his thanks to my mother and set off still acknowledging the vocal thanks of the villagers who had followed him down the track and were waiting outside our hut ready to wave him off. For a few hours I was an object of attention and interest but I told everyone that he had just been interested in my schooling and they seemed satisfied. As I curled up in the hut that night I prayed that some miracle might happen.

  Four long days passed. I had all but given up hope of any salvation through Mr Nuttall – what could he do anyway? I resolved to tell Mama. I planned to say that I would approach Daniel in the hope that he might at least be able to find me a cleaning or waitressing position perhaps at one of the planters’ clubs where I could try to give myself a better, if servile, future than that which awaited me in the village.

 

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