‘There’s a big problem with several of the stations on the Darjeeling Himalayan Mountain Railway,’ a handsome young RAF pilot told Madge, ‘because tigers often eat people in the waiting rooms.’
His friend shook his head and laughed behind the pilot’s back.
‘Take no notice of his nonsense. The truth is, he read about a tiger eating a station master in a book by Mark Twain, but if you have time to join us for cocktails at the Grand Hotel in Calcutta this evening, we will tell you all about Darjeeling.’
Grace simply couldn’t keep a straight face when she explained how disappointed she was to turn down the kind offer, but they had to catch a train to Jalpaiguri station in the foothills of the Himalayas.
In fact, they had little option but to stay overnight in Calcutta because the journey from Howrah station to Jalpaiguri was in excess of twelve hours and then another fifty miles or so up on the Darjeeling Himalayan Mountain Railway. Madge was delighted they had taken Vera’s advice to travel as light as possible. The platform heaved with soldiers and RAF boys waiting for the locomotive to take them to the military camps around Ghoom and Darjeeling. The wounded were on crutches and walking sticks and several combat lads from the front line had arms in slings and heavy bandaging. Come hell or high water they were going to have a good time on their recuperation period at the most famous of all hill stations.
A loud hoot announced the arrival of the little steam-driven train and the passengers greeted it with a cheer. White smoke belched into the fading pink sunset and Grace felt a polite but firm tug on her sleeve. She turned to find a smiling, khaki-clad Scotsman with a leg in plaster leaning on a single crutch, and shouting above the noise of the approaching train, ‘Pardon me, please. Is this the Darjeeling choo choo?’
She looked at the young man, who had been so badly injured laying his life on the line for his country. The little train had finally shuddered to a halt as Grace instantly joined the fun and answered in her broad Yorkshire accent, ‘Track twenty-nine, boy, you can gimme a shine.’
Within seconds the platform was in chaos as a huge Welshman, with the most magnificent baritone voice, boomed out, ‘I can afford to board the Darjeeling choo choo. I’ve got my fare and a trifle to spare.’ Injured soldiers pretended their crutches were trombones and a wheelchair-bound warrior completed a full circle in his chariot with Indian passengers laughing and applauding.
Madge was a huge fan of Glenn Miller and so was Grace who said that ‘In the Mood’ was her favourite. Then, as the warning hoot came that the train was about to start, there was one last serenade from the Welsh baritone. He looked directly at the girls and crooned a very charming invitation: ‘Dinner in the diner? Nothing could be finer.’
‘Sorry,’ smiled Madge, ‘but there isn’t a dining car on this train!’
Madge realised, however, just how hungry she was and when the carriage quietened down the girls agreed that as soon as they arrived, instead of having an early night, as originally intended, they would go out for a meal.
The train rounded a bend on a steep incline with the wheels screeching on the single-track narrow-gauge line. Just then, one of the walking wounded passed out and cut his head as he fell. He couldn’t have chosen better company because within seconds the two young nurses had loosened his tie and collar, turned him on his side and cleaned up a wound that was already starting to ooze.
By way of thanks to the nurses, water and a tumbler of very fine brandy was passed to them as they kneeled on the floor.
‘That’s a rather splendid-looking bottle of brandy,’ said Madge to the young West Country boy who had so willingly filled the tumbler.
‘Yes, miss,’ he replied, ‘I borrowed it from behind the bar of the hotel where we stayed in Calcutta. Purely for medicinal purposes, obviously.’
While the toy train built in Glasgow in the late 1870s heaved and rumbled its way above the clouds the lad who had banged his head regained consciousness. He perked up after drinking several tumblers of water and as the train finally pulled in to Darjeeling station he hobbled over to the girls to thank them.
‘When I came to and saw you two looking at me I thought I had died and gone to heaven. But what happened to the tumbler of brandy my pal handed over?’
‘Our need was greater than yours,’ replied Grace with the sweetest of smiles.
They ended by having a very late night and were more than grateful the following morning for the first long lie-in they had enjoyed in weeks.
‘You can have the bathroom first,’ said Madge to a sleepy Grace, who instantly asked for a cup of tea.
‘Milk and two sugars, please!’
‘We’d better get a move on,’ said Madge. ‘Breakfast finishes at eleven and it’s past nine now.’
There was suddenly an irate snort as Grace looked at her watch which was showing the time as eight. ‘Ha, I’m not falling for that, young lady,’ she laughed. ‘You’d best make it up to me now and bring me that tea on the double!’
Phyl had told Madge about a shop in Darjeeling that was renowned for making shoes of any design so the first thing they did after breakfast was walk to the open-fronted stall where tourists stood and watched the cobblers. Madge gave the owner a page from an old copy of Vogue with the style of
