1935, Madras
Owen and Jennifer Tuttleberry are Anglo-Indian friends of Honorine’s, and now of Digby’s—Jennifer works as a switchboard operator, while her husband is a locomotive driver. Owen spends his days standing on the footplate of Bessie, his great hissing “dame,” her plethora of dials and levers before him, a little boy whose dream has come true. His Shoranur route allows him few chances to sit. “I’ll see the sun rise in the Bay of Bengal,” Owen says, “then see it set over the Arabian Sea. Am I not the luckiest man alive?”
Digby has been wanting better transport. A car is too expensive, but a second-hand motorcycle may not be. Owen has sent word that he has one and at a price that Digby will like. Digby and Honorine head out by jatka to the Perambur Railway Colony. This Anglo-Indian walled enclave on the edge of the city is laid out like a child’s toy village and dotted with small identical houses. In the central clearing, young boys play cricket using a tennis ball. Teenagers cluster around the swings under the watchful gaze of the adults. There isn’t a sari or mundu in sight—it’s all frocks, trousers, and shorts.
Outside the Tuttleberrys’ house sits a car of unidentifiable make, unpainted, and with spot welds showing. While Honorine goes inside, Owen takes Digby to the backyard to meet Esmeralda, who, Owen says, can be his for a modest sum. The price is a bargain, though Digby worries if she really is the “cent-per-cent reliable gem!” that Owen claims. Owen has promised to expand Digby’s understanding of things mechanical—a counterpoint to his knowledge of the workings of the body. Esmeralda is nominally a Triumph, but Owen admits that the fuel tank, the handlebars, the front fork, the engine mount, the chassis, the exhaust, and the wooden sidecar have all been fabricated in the Perambur Railway shed, so she is technically part locomotive. Only the single-cylinder engine is original. “She’s standoffish till you know her,” Owen admits. “But she’ll be loyal to you like nobody’s business. I love her so much that I’ll be your mechanic for life. Promise.” With Owen in the sidecar, instructing, Digby gets Esmeralda going and circles the enclave. By the time they return he’s smitten. “She’s like family, Digby. If I didn’t have my car now, I’d keep her. You saw my car? A beauty, no? Need to get it painted.”
They must stay for dinner, “no question about it.” Honorine is seated next to a broad-shouldered young man in pressed black trousers and a spotless blue shirt, his cuffs rolled high enough above his elbows to display thick biceps. Jennifer introduces him as her brother Jeb. He’s fairer than his sister, with light brown hair. He clasps Digby’s hand in a powerful grip and says, “Doc, my brother-in-law must like you to part with Esmeralda.”
Owen says, “Doc, you’re shaking hands with a future Olympian, mark my words. If Jeb doesn’t make our hockey team then I don’t know what’s bloody what.”
“Don’t jinx it, for Christ’s sake,” Jeb says.
Jennifer says, “My brother doesn’t know a ticket from a brinjal but he’s supposedly a ticket collector.” She flashes a toothy smile framed by red lipstick. “They feed him raw eggs each morning, mutton at lunch, and he plays hockey all day. Cushy life, no?”
The contrast between the fair Jeb and his dark brother-in-law is striking. Owen, with hands that are black from sun exposure and with a permanent rim of grease outlining his fingernails, is also the simpler soul.
Jeb lives with his mother, a few houses down. Soon she joins them, together with Owen’s aunt, the Tuttleberrys’ two children, and a niece. The family crams around the dinner table with their honored guests. Digby is charmed by this tableau of domestic life: children seated on laps, Uncle Jeb dispensing homemade liquor whose kick is stronger than any locomotive, while Jennifer serves the one-pot meal she calls a “pish-pash”: rice, mutton, potatoes, peas, and spices cooked together, a delectable dish.
Owen looks proudly at his wife. “She’s a catch, isn’t she, Doc? Who’d think she’d marry a darkie like me!”
Once they are outside the railway colony, Esmeralda motors past clusters of huts and shabby, makeshift dwellings. Digby is struck by the contrast: an enclave for Anglo-Indians that excludes natives, yet whose inhabitants are themselves excluded by the ruling race with whom they align. But then, he’s in the same spot. Digby Kilgour: oppressed in Glasgow; oppressor here. The thought depresses him.
