The Tigers in the Tower Read online

“What’s a durbar?”

  “A court where the Nizam sits and rules his people.”

  “Is a Nizam like a judge and you get scragged?”

  “Scragged?” Sahira couldn’t get her head around this London English.

  “Hanged.”

  Sahira shuddered. “No, not like that. More like King George’s court. A Nizam is a ruler.”

  Ned picked up a couple of crumbs and held them out as she had done. A bold male sidled up to him and took one from his small palm. “Look at that! Pigeons ain’t so bad, are they?”

  “Not so bad at all.” Sahira smiled.

  Breakfast over for the pigeons, Sahira brushed off her hands. “Tell me, Ned, are you an orphan like the rest of us?”

  He grimaced, his young face suddenly looking decades older with worry. “Yes, but I’m not on the register. My mother wasn’t married when she ’ad me so I’m not allowed in official like. My ma was Cook’s second cousin so she persuaded Mr Pence to let me in as ’er boot boy.”

  “Boot boy?” Boots were clearly an important part of orphanage life if they even had a boy assigned to them.

  “I clean shoes, sweep up, do the dirty jobs. It’s fine though as long as Cook’s not been drinking. At least I don’t ’ave to go to school like the others.” He paused, then added anxiously, “Mr Pence wants to get rid of me so you’d better go back upstairs – I don’t want to give ’im a reason to carry out ’is threats.” Somewhere in the city a clock struck six, perhaps in the white chapel Sahira was yet to see. “Cook’ll be in to make breakfast and it wouldn’t do for you to be found down ’ere with me.” He rubbed his knuckles as if he could still feel the sting of the last blow.

  “Thank you, Ned. It’s been good meeting you.” Sahira bowed.

  He blinked up at her. “You’re not how I thought you’d be.”

  “And how was that?”

  “Lawks, for one thing, you’re odd but not that odd. Being a Hindoo princess, I thought you’d ’ave blue skin and lots of arms or something.” He’d clearly seen pictures of Hindoo gods and got the wrong idea.

  “No one in India has blue skin and lots of arms.” Sahira didn’t think it worth repeating the fact that she was from another faith and not a princess – the differences didn’t seem to matter here. Distance blurred the distinctions that were so important in India.

  “Shame. It sounds like it could be useful, you know, for carrying things?” He demonstrated his idea of having many arms with a little pantomime of juggling eggs.

  Sahira laughed and shook her head. “Careful you don’t drop one. See you later, Ned.” She paused at the door. “Oh, by the way, who does the cat belong to?”

  “The cat?” Ned shrugged. “No one really. ’E just lives ’ere. We all call him ‘Cat’.”

  “Then his name is Jeoffry,” Sahira announced.

  “’Ow do you know?”

  “He told me.” She winked and ran upstairs as quickly as her bad leg would allow, Jeoffry at her heels.

  After the breakfast of a decent serving of porridge that helped silence Sahira’s rumbling stomach, the official orphans were expected in the schoolrooms, boys on the first floor, girls on the second. As they left, Sahira noticed Tommy Newton going from boy to boy, flicking necks, patting pockets, and removing whatever he had a fancy for, marble or coin, while Alf kicked a damp-eyed lad down several steps and laughed at him for being a crybaby – all this while Mr Pence was in the room reading his newspaper.

  “Why does Alf do that – and why doesn’t Mr Pence stop him?” Sahira asked Ann and Emily, ready to go to the bullied child’s aid.

  “Don’t!” warned Emily, taking her arm. “Are you mad? You’ll only make it worse. Hubert knows he gets a kick in the morning and a kick at night. He expects it.”

  This was outrageous but Ann and Emily had firmly taken charge of her, steering her into the classroom to see the schoolmistress, Mrs Pence. She looked as welcoming as her husband, staring down her long nose at Sahira as if she were something dubious Jeoffry had dragged in from the street. A glittering jet necklace coiled around her throat like a Black Mamba snake.

  “Mrs Pence, this is the new girl,” Ann said, pushing her gently forward. Out of the corner of her eye Sahira noticed Jeoffry leap to a windowsill and settle down in a patch of weak sunlight.

  The woman surveyed Sahira. “I see a lock of hair escaping.”

  Emily came up behind and tucked the offending curl under the cap for her.

  “Have you been to school, girl?” The woman’s tone could cut ice from a Himalayan glacier.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Can you read?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My mother taught me.” Be patient, Sahira reminded herself.

  “The Indian woman.” Mrs Pence pursed her lips. “So I suppose you cannot read the King’s English?”

  “Indeed I can – and Persian script.”

  “There’s no call for that here. Can you write?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you reply you will say ‘ma’am’ or ‘yes, Mrs Pence’.”

  “Yes, Mrs Pence.” Sahira looked down at her boots for encouragement.

  “Know your numbers and tables?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Sew?”

  “My mother thought my embroidery very fine, ma’am.”

  “Not embroidery – good plain sewing – shirts, pillowcases, and so on.”

  “I dare say I can learn, Mrs Pence.” She hoped that would satisfy the woman.

  But no. Mrs Pence scowled at Sahira. “I dare say you can. You’ll join the top form and we’ll see if you are as skilled as you claim.” She pointed to the ring of girls who surrounded her chair. Sahira rather wished she had pretended to be ignorant and been invited to sit among the younger ones. Their teacher had a kindly face and soft voice.

  Sahira took her place next to Ann. The top form began by copying out the Ten Commandments on their slates, a tedious process for Sahira as she was used to pen and ink, not chalk. Her handwriting was not at its best. They then moved on to an hour of sewing hems while Mrs Pence read aloud. This was a little better as the book she chose was The Pilgrim’s Progress, which had enough action and adventure between the moral stuff to keep Sahira interested. In the final session before dinner, each girl was invited to recite the piece she had learned. Emily had chosen one of Isaac Watts’s poems, which starts, “How doth the little busy bee.” Sahira felt tears prick her eyes – it was one of the verses her father had taught her, containing splendid stuff about gathering honey and building cells. She was transported far from grey London into the steamy heat of the jungle. Once, in an old temple in the forest, he had shown her a honeycomb dripping from a crack in a frieze of the Lord Shiva with his cobra necklace and trident. A colony of bees had moved in when the holy men had abandoned it, new followers for the Hindoo god of destruction and re-creation. She was shocked, therefore, to come back from her daydream to hear new verses as Emily continued. The poem went on to say how if children weren’t kept busy, the devil, Satan, would find mischief for their idle hands to do. Somehow Sahira’s father had not thought she needed to hear that part. His God had been the God of love, not punishment.

  Mrs Pence turned her beady eye on the newcomer. “Eleanor Clive, I see you are impressed. I imagine that this is the first good poetry you’ve ever heard?”

  “No, ma’am.” After the bee part, Sahira didn’t think it very good. Father had said good poetry should tell you a story, or open new vistas of feeling and thought, not beat you over the head with a moral. “I’ve heard quite a lot.”

  “Indeed?” the teacher said severely.

  “My father adored poetry and taught me lots by heart. He even made me my own diwan but I think it was lost on the voyage.”

  “What is a diwan?” Mrs Pence spoke the foreign word like it was an apricot stone she had to spit out.

  “A collection of his favourite poetry, written out by hand. There were many English poems in it.”

  �
��And many heathen riddles too, no doubt,” she said smugly.

  “Not riddles, ma’am, though he put in some English ones. The Persian poems were mainly love songs, like the ghazals of the great poet Hafez, and Father also translated the best speeches from the epic of Rama the Steadfast.”

  “We’ll have none of that foreign stuff here, young lady. You may, however, recite one of the English verses your father included. Make sure it is suitable.”

  Thinking of this morning’s adventure, Sahira decided that no one could object to her favourite poem about a cat.

  For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.

  For he is the servant of the Living God, duly and daily serving him.

  For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.

  For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.

  And so it went on, for many lines, extolling the virtues of this most excellent of creatures, teacher of benevolence to children and member of the tribe of Tiger. The girls listened to her with delighted expressions, unclear if the tongue-firmly-in-cheek poem was mockery or sincere – the poet probably meant it as both. But because it mentioned God, Moses, and the Lord Jesus, Mrs Pence could hardly object.

  When Sahira finished, the teacher was silent. “A fine piece,” she eventually declared, though she didn’t sound sure, “but next time you will learn something more conventional. The opening of John Milton’s Paradise Lost will suffice. First twenty lines.”

  Sahira curtseyed. That was already lodged in her memory. Father had enjoyed declaring it with a swing of his long knife as he cut a path through thick undergrowth, saying there was nothing better than a bit of Milton to clear a way through obstacles.

  During dinner, Sahira didn’t try to talk behind her hand because she was too busy pondering all the things she had learned about the orphanage in the day she had spent there. It was like a dangerous forest, full of snares. The owner was crooked like a forked-tongue viper, she was sure of that. Not only was his arrangement with Mr Godstow about her inheritance unfair, he was clearly in cahoots with the local bandit lord. If Tommy and Alf were to be believed, he didn’t really care for running the place but left the children to sort out their own caste system under his nose. Bright little Ned was down at the bottom – the chamar, or untouchable, of the house; the Newtons considered themselves the brahmin, or top caste. As to where Sahira fitted, that was still undecided.

  What she didn’t realize was that in a very short time she was about to find out the hard way.

  CHAPTER 5

  Several days passed at the orphanage, all much the same as the first. It was hard to know which day of the week it was, the only sign of change being that the orphans had fish broth on Friday. It was as unpalatable as it sounded, Sahira discovered. The cook could do with a lesson from her family’s khansaman; he knew how to add spices to make the most boring vegetables tasty. This English food was like cotton in the mouth and about as exciting to the taste buds.

  It didn’t take Sahira long to unearth more dishonest dealings in the orphanage. According to Ned, Cook sold on the best cuts of meat bought for the orphans. She replaced them with poor-quality but cheaper stuff from the market. The plain sewing the girls were expected to do was sent to Mrs Pence by a local seamstress. In other words, they were cheap labour as the dressmaker didn’t have to pay them, though Sahira had no doubt Mrs Pence saw the benefit in her purse. Most worrying of all was what happened to the orphans when they left the establishment at thirteen or fourteen. Mr Pence told his patrons that they all found good jobs with reputable employers. Ann whispered to Sahira that two boys from last year could now be found acting as runners for thief lord Harry Newton and that one of the girls now worked in an inn he owned. The rumour was that if you dined there, you didn’t leave with your watch or wallet.

  Mrs Bingham came a few days later to check on “the girl from the boat”, as she called her. It was dinnertime. She sat with her cousin at the high table, a small smile of satisfaction on her lips that made Sahira want to do something drastic just to wipe it off her face, but she knew, like the tiger, she had to wait for her chance to pounce. For the moment, she had to pretend she was a pussy cat. She hated that Mrs Bingham thought she had successfully clipped Sahira’s wings. What Mrs Bingham didn’t know was that Sahira was just waiting for her opportunity to fly. She only lingered because she couldn’t decide where she was heading. Sahira often imagined herself running free into the green fields of this country with her tigers for company, but what would happen next, she couldn’t fathom. Nothing good, she feared.

  Saturday brought an early dinner and longer free time than on other days so that Cook could take a half day. The sun had finally shown herself so Sahira sat in a shaft in the corner of the yard, turning up the hem of her Sunday best gown. Preparing for the day when she would be free of here, she had decided she wasn’t going to cut off the elephants so had opted to hide them in a fold and risk reproof for having too short a skirt. A shadow fell across the material. When she looked up, she found Tommy, Alf, and a couple of their friends had gathered around her.

  Sahira knew that this was not good. Groups of animals ganging up on a solitary one never went well for the victim. Even mallard ducks, one of the most friendly seeming of creatures paddling across ponds in London parks, could turn into murderous brutes when in a flock. They mobbed and drowned one of their number if they took against him, according to her father. Nature was not kind, he’d said. Sahira knew that you had to be a creature of teeth and claws, not a white belly shown in submission.

  “Give Tommy your boots,” said Alf, getting straight to the point.

  “I told you ‘no’.” Sahira snapped the thread, keeping the needle in her hand. She looked around, hoping to find someone to help, but the yard had rapidly emptied once the others smelled trouble.

  Tommy clucked his tongue and sighed. “You’ve been here long enough, Clive. You should know how things work by now. You’re here on our say-so. If we demand payment, then you cough up. That’s how it works.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Sahira stood up. “Not with me.”

  “Who are you to challenge us, eh?” Alf thrust his face right in hers, forcing her back a step. His breath smelled of onions.

  “I know exactly who I am, but do you?” I am a tiger, Sahira told herself, not a mouse.

  “Yeah, you’re a grubby foreigner who’s due a lesson in doing what she’s told by her betters.”

  “I have no betters here. I am from the house of un-Issa and the house of Lord Chalmers. The blood of two noble families runs in my veins.”

  “Let’s see what colour you bleed then!” Faster than a cobra strike, Alf took a swipe at her, blade in hand, meaning to scare rather than make contact.

  Sahira flinched back, shocked. She hadn’t expected that. Until now all scuffles in the orphanage had been purely shoves and fists, but Alf had changed the rules on her.

  So she threw the dress at him. It fell over his face, blinding him with the folds of green cotton. He stabbed blindly. Sahira ducked his swipes and stuck the needle in his forearm. He yowled like a bee-stung dog and ripped the dress from his head, tearing it from neck to hem. She wouldn’t be wearing elephants again.

  “What the ’ell was that?” he protested. “Tommy!”

  Tommy pulled the needle from his twin’s arm, staring at the little droplet of blood in disbelief. “You hurt Alf!”

  “Tommy, teach her a lesson!” moaned Alf.

  What could she do? Sahira flung her hands out at the ring of the twins and their snarling pack of dog-boys. “Keep back, or I’ll curse you!” She began chanting under her breath. “Tyger, Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night.” She curled her fingers into claws, praying that the spirit of the tigers would protect her.

  Tommy waved his hand at his minions. “For Gawd’s sake, she’s bamming you. She’s no witch. That’s no curse. Bill, what are you waiting for?”

  A b
ig lad took a swing at her, but he was slow and Sahira dodged his blow. Behind her, another boy took hold of a handful of hair and shoved her into the wall. Pain and outrage boiled inside Sahira.

  “Get those boots!” shouted Tommy.

  One of the boys – she couldn’t see which – tackled her to the ground and tugged at her ankles. The bootlaces were tied in a double knot so it was no easy matter to wrestle them off the feet of a kicking, struggling captive.

  “Boys, Eleanor Clive – what are you doing? Get up this instant!” Mr Pence entered the yard with a guest in tow.

  The weight on Sahira lifted and she struggled to her feet, her bad leg singing its protest. When she pushed the hair out of her eyes, she saw the orphanage owner was accompanied by an unexpectedly familiar figure: Mr Cops from the menagerie.

  All thoughts of the fight vanished. “Is something wrong with the tigers?” Sahira asked, wiping a trickle of blood from her nose.

  Mr Cops scrunched his hat up in his hands, fury in his eyes. “Aren’t you going to say something to the lads? They were picking on the little lass,” he muttered to Mr Pence. “That isn’t right.”

  “Of course.” Mr Pence turned magisterially to the Newtons and their pack. “Boys, that was very wrong of you.”

  “Yes, Mr Pence,” they intoned. The twins smirked at each other.

  “Even if the girl started it –” said Mr Pence.

  “What!” Sahira gasped.

  “– you must not give in to the provocations of the unfortunate. She cannot help her savagery; you, as Englishmen, can. You are dismissed.”

  The boys walked cockily past Mr Pence and Mr Cops and burst out laughing as soon as they were out of sight.

  “I’ll leave you to tell her your business.” Mr Pence strutted off to find another orphan to annoy.

  Mr Cops scowled after them. “I’d’ve given ’em all a hiding. Bullies, the lot of ’em. You all right, Miss?”

  Sahira nodded and felt the egg-sized swelling on her head where she had collided with the wall. That was the worst of her bumps and bruises.