‘Oh my goodness, that’s terrible,’ said Madge, just as shocked as Basil.
Their plans were put on hold as the pair discussed the news at length over a good old fry-up in Firpo’s.
‘I wonder what those American boys who were so kind to us on the flight from Chittagong must be thinking,’ said Madge. ‘They must be wondering what the future holds for US forces in the Burma Campaign.’
‘They won’t be the only ones wondering that,’ replied Basil.
Elsewhere on the front page of The Statesman it was reported that the Allies were closing in on Berlin. A Reuters story said that ‘the collapse of the entire German central position was imminent’ and that Allied entry into Berlin was just days away at the most. British paratroopers had been dropped fifteen miles from the German capital and total victory in Europe seemed in sight, but there wasn’t a single word about progress in the Burma Campaign. Frustrating as that was, Madge and Basil were well aware that strict censorship was the reason. Their security training kicked in and they decided not to discuss that situation in Firpo’s.
Madge had a spring in her step as they walked out to wait for a rickshaw in the shade of the green shutters outside Firpo’s because the wonderful news from London meant Mum and the girls would hopefully soon be able to move back from High Wycombe to the family home in Dover. Although it will be a while before the house is fit to live in again, she remembered with a pang. All thoughts of home took second place, however, at the first sighting of the Victoria Memorial set in sixty-four acres of lawned splendour on the banks of the Hooghly River.
A guide approached and instantly started telling the couple in almost perfect English about the history of the building. He wore a traditional flowing white cotton kurta top and dhoti, sandals and a faded brown trilby hat that had seen better days. He was one of those characters who had an irresistibly cheeky charm. He explained that after the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 George Nathaniel Curzon, First Marquess Curzon of Kedleston and Viceroy of India, suggested the building of a stately, spacious and grand monument in her memory. ‘This magnificent creation in white Makrana marble from Rajasthan that stands before us is the result,’ he said.
‘It certainly is beautiful,’ Madge agreed, ‘but it doesn’t look like white marble?’
‘Memsahib, you are right,’ the guide replied. ‘The Japanese were bombing us and the British said the building had to be camouflaged to prevent it being damaged. I think they painted it black so the Japanese pilots could not use it as a landmark. It used to gleam white in the moonlight and I hope it will do so again once this terrible war is over.’
‘For just a few annas it has to be worthwhile to have a guide like this,’ whispered Madge to Basil, as they walked towards the magnificent structure. The guide told them that construction of the building had begun in 1906 but by the time the Victoria Memorial was completed in 1921, New Delhi had already been earmarked to replace Calcutta as the nation’s capital.
‘The official reason,’ he explained, ‘was that a more centrally located capital city would be in the country’s best interests.’ He looked at them with an apologetic, almost sardonic, smile. ‘The British couldn’t wait to relocate the capital from Calcutta after a spate of bombings and political assassinations.’
Without saying another word, he doffed his hat and simply walked away.
‘He left very abruptly,’ Madge said, slightly confused.
‘He did indeed!’ laughed Basil. ‘Well, while we’re here let’s have a wander round the grounds and then make our way back into the city centre to do some exploring.’
When they arrived in the centre of the vibrant but troubled city, the pair were shocked when they saw for themselves the huge divide that separated the haves from the have-nots. The Victoria Memorial had been overwhelmingly impressive yet just a taxi ride away poverty-stricken families lived on the edge of rubbish dumps and pavements where they begged for money to buy food to feed their starving children.
They came across one family who were living under a large cotton sheet that was attached to the top of a shoulder-high wall and two wooden poles driven into the ground. Underneath, three little children were playing on the unpaved surface that also served as their bed. The mother looked so weary and downcast that even when Basil dropped a generous handful of coins into her begging bowl she barely had the energy to acknowledge his kindness.
‘That was really kind of you,’ said Madge. ‘Imagine living like that. That poor woman looks so weary. It really is very sad.’
As they walked away, Basil turned to take a photograph as proof of just how truly dreadful the conditions were. Within seconds the calm of the sultry afternoon was brought to an arm-waving, shouting end when a bare-footed man in a badly stained dhoti appeared from under the cotton sheet and started marching towards them. Madge and Basil took the hint and beat a hasty retreat.
All in all it had been a thought-provoking day in extreme heat and debilitating humidity and Madge was happy to return to the Grand Hotel to freshen up before strolling over to Firpo’s for cakes and a pot of tea.
As the week wore on they explored as much of Calcutta as they could, strolling the streets and soaking up the atmosphere. On their last evening in the city they decided to try the Great Eastern Hotel for dinner, which in the glory days of the Raj was known as the Jewel of the Far East. The hotel was above a department store so Madge took the opportunity to purchase the six bottles of peroxide that nurses at 56 IGH had begged her to bring back to Chittagong. In spite of closing time approaching she also had a wander around the
