A Present from Calcutta
Patricia Cammish
The mahogany wardrobe door springs open and the half-shrouded body slumps out, as if it had been fighting to escape. Henry recoils, then yanks the blanket to cover the accusing stare and drags the thing to the head of the staircase. Fighting the fear triggered by the overpowering smell of beeswax-polished wood, he manages to control himself enough to manoeuvre the lumpen weight down the treads in silence. Pain stabs. He pauses in the entrance hall. Clamps his teeth together. His brother, Arthur, smug in medal-encrusted uniform with triple gold-pipped epaulettes, watches from a gilded frame. Mamma’s favourite painting – of her favourite son. Arthur’s portrait hangs beside the equestrian one of Father, resplendent in the gold frogging and side-striped trousers of the Fifteenth Hussars, painted after the South African War, the year before Henry was born. As a boy, the second son, the no-account, Henry had known he ought to feel family pride, but he never had – never felt part of any of it. Even Father’s horse saw his treachery and sneered at him with wild malevolent eyes.
Turning his back, Henry listens. They’re all in the dining room – Arthur, Father, Mamma, my sisters, Aunt Gertrude. All jolly together. Over the murmur of conversation, the voice of his elder brother predominates: Bloody Arthur, trench hero, survivor of the Somme, family golden boy! Henry’s fingers squeeze a stranglehold on the bundle, picturing Mamma’s relief when he’d asked to be excused tonight’s soirée. ‘As you wish, Henry, as you wish.’
I’m just an embarrassment.
Gnawing the inside of his lip, Henry crosses to the servants’ entrance and drags the thing outside. Rain pricks, gravel crunches, but the air is breathable. Behind the house, brightness from the French windows splays across the terrace onto the wet lawn. Inside, beneath sparkling chandeliers, Mamma smiles, caresses Arthur’s shoulder, pierces Henry with longing. Outside, in the darkness, rain trickles through Henry’s hair, onto his neck, down his cheeks. Amidst laughter and the clink of crystal, Golden Boy strides to the window, pulls the long drapes closed. Arthur. always there to put the boot in. Will it never stop? Why did I leave India? Why did I come back? No-one really noticed when I did – except him.
‘So, little brother, the brave adventurer returns. Too foreign for you was it? Too exciting? Too many pretty girls?’
Biting his lip, Henry limps towards the river gate, past Mamma’s herbaceous border where peony heads weep petals as luminous as those he scattered onto Grandfather’s coffin. Memories of the old man surge as his eyes rake the water-meadows for the comforting silhouette of the boathouse. The rain is easing and he rubs his sleeve across his face. A rising moon, slotted between retreating clouds, illuminates the path to the boathouse, Grandfather Warrington’s pride and joy: Henry’s childhood sanctuary. I wonder if my portfolio is still hidden in the rafters? The watercolours must be mildewed by now…
The old place exhales neglect. A scimitar blade of eaves-carving hangs across the verandah but the familiar odours of river and creosote remain: wispy reminders of picnics with Grandfather Warrington. Sunlit days. Sketching by the river. Helping the old man to load the boat. ‘Skiff, my boy. Best learn the right word.’
Back in the last century, Grandfather had been a Cambridge rowing blue. Arthur scorned the sport: his prowess – in the boxing ring, on horseback, at the wicket – a legend in the family. Grandfather scoffed. ‘Brain not brawn, that’s what matters, balance, determination.’ He would give Henry the rudder as he unchained the boathouse doors and settled himself to row, his ancient, Blanco-stiff plimsolls, straining against the footboard whilst his grandson watched and learned.
Henry sees Grandfather’s fingers clamped around the oars; remembers the afternoon when they changed places; tastes the honey of the old man’s praise when the skiff skimmed towards the lake. ‘That’s it my boy! Hear the water-chatter on the hull.’ The thing in Henry’s arms twitches, claws him back to the present. Sap-green moss on the blackened verandah boards squashes underfoot into viscous slime. He slips, adjusts his grip. It’s heavier. As if it’s trying to slow me down. As if it knows. A sound grates. Henry freezes. It grates again. Stupid! The water’s risen after the rain. The boathouse river-doors are dragging in the current. Father’s voice interrupts: ‘Scared of your own shadow. Foolish boy! Why can’t you be more like Arthur?’
Always a foolish boy. Never like Arthur.
Was it foolish to think of going to India in the first place? Foolish to believe my existence there could be different, or I could ever make Father proud?
Henry buries his face in the blanket but the wool emits the dreaded beeswax odour from school. Was it foolish to want happiness, acceptance, love? Was it wrong?
Escape to India. It had seemed a heavenly idea.
*
And, after the outward voyage, when his sea-sickness made him ready to sell his soul for salvation, the arrival in Calcutta was heaven. The ship’s motion stilled, the throbbing engines quiet, Henry balanced on deck, entranced, at the dockside activity and vibrant colour of his new home,
The banks of the Hooghly River teemed. Wrapped in loincloths or baggy kurtas and turbans, people worked, bathed, defecated, scavenged or simply squatted in the mud staring at the water traffic and the forest of masts and spars of the foreign ships. Henry ventured a smile, didn’t question the silent stares. India. Exotic. Inspiring. Magical. He gripped the hot rail. He would overcome Father’s criticism, Mamma’s disappointment, the vicious bullying from schooldays. Leave failure behind.
His artist’s eyes widened at the vibrant palette, the kaleidoscope of the dockside, the clamour of wandering cows; overloaded carts; gangs of porters; saree-ed ladies in rickshaws. My new life. I’ll take up drawing again. It’s going to be wonderful. Hope surged, as it had on the way going to his gentlemen’s outfitters three months earlier.
*
The mahogany shrine of Blandford’s Tailoring reeked of beeswax polish, a smell, for Henry, inextricably linked with humiliation and punishment in the panelled surroundings of Father’s study, the Headmaster’s office, or the wasteland of school corridors. Today, however, on hearing Henry’s mumbled travel requirements, the intimidating Mr Blandford had radiated welcome. ‘Oh yes Sir, February, a very wise choice Sir. Ideal time for travel to India. Coolest, most healthy season Sir. All my Guards gentlemen say so. Before the monsoon arrives. Then it’s hell. Filthy. Boots rot on your feet.’ The tailor had paused for breath, then whipped his tape-measure from its embrace of his neck. ‘Now Sir, if you please..?’ Henry had almost enjoyed Mr Blandford’s fussings. Waves of optimism swept away any fears of rotting boots.
*
But now, waiting to disembark, Blandford’s tropical clothes (Suave. Comfortable. Correct.) were neither suave, nor comfortable. The linen three-piece sagged in the oven’s-breath air. Henry pulled at his starched collar, pitying the guards in their red tunics, but drew himself upright, nevertheless.
A touch to his elbow announced the presence of a tall, calico-clad, man gazing down from beneath a scarlet turban. ‘Carry bags Sahib?’ Henry stepped away, responded with, what he hoped was, an assertive nod. The porter flicked a rag from his shoulder, coiled it into a pad for his turban and hefted two large cases on top. He grasped Henry’s valise and negotiated the steps down the side of the ship with the grace of a ballet dancer. Henry followed, trying not to trip.
A wizened boatman, steadied a flimsy craft at the bottom. The porter stepped in, arranged the cases then offered a grimy hand back to his client. Refusing the help, Henry collapsed onto the plank-seat, lost his hat, retrieved it from the bilge and clung to the boat sides. Filthy water trickled down his neck. Conscious of the porter’s silent scrutiny, he fixed his gaze on two conjoined dragonflies hovering around a floating animal carcase in the river. They alighted on the awful thing, then took off to continue their erratic, erotic progress. A stink wafted from it as the ferryman sawed the stern-oar from side to side, as if across the churning waters of the Styx. Slewing the boat around the gnarled ferryman sprang onto the jetty. Nausea rising, Henry crawled behind, struggled upright and rummaged his pockets for coins. The porter and the bags disappeared up some steps.
The embankment and iron railings at the top resembled the promenade at Eastbourne – but an Eastbourne without order, rules, or reason. Mush oozed over the welts of Henry’s neat Oxfords. He scanned the crowds. So many people, so close, so uncovered: no white face anywhere. He proffered a banknote to the porter, who ignored it. Why doesn’t the chap just take the money and go? The tall Sikh waggled his head and delivered a practised kick at a beggar, who was crawling towards them brandishing a rag-wrapped stump of an arm. The porter’s body-odour and perfumed hair-oil hung in a noxious cloud. ‘Where to Sahib?’
Henry gaped at the beggar scuttling off between the legs of onlookers. Where to? I’ve no idea. Did the Pelham-Warners get my telegram?
*
Henry’s Aunt Gertrude had often spoken about her girlhood in Calcutta and of Victoria, her old classmate, who’d married an army officer out there. Hearing his travel plans, she’d clapped him on the back. ‘Delighted you’re showing a bit of spunk for once! You’ll have a wonderful time! I’ll write immediately.’
Victoria Pelham-Warner’s reply had matched Gertrude’s enthusiasm. Of course she’d help her friend’s nephew to settle in – a shame the Embassy had moved to Delhi in 1911 – but the Colonel, her husband Edward, could pull a few strings. Respectable lodgings in the European district were always available. Furthermore, the Colonel would meet Henry off the boat.
Respectable lodgings in the European district – not amongst the real inhabitants of Calcutta! When Henry ventured dismay, Aunt Gertrude erupted. ‘Quite out of the question! Foolish idea!’
*
But now, on the quayside, amongst the ‘real inhabitants’ of Calcutta, the hideous beggar and the smells of the Kidderpore docks, Henry just wanted to find Colonel Pelham-Warner and escape.
‘Sahib?’ The porter pointed over Henry’s head to an open-topped motor-car parting the sea of faces with Biblical ease; immaculate bodywork an oasis in the scrum. Its passenger stood and boomed at parade-ground volume. ‘Henry Warrington?’ Henry stepped forward, almost falling over a roped donkey laden with drooping vegetation, made his way to the vehicle and grasped the speaker’s hand.
Edward Pelham-Warner’s beetroot complexion was not the white face Henry sought, but welcome nonetheless. ‘Yes sir. I’m so pleased to see you. How do you do?’
‘Damned hot, that’s how I do. Hop in and let’s get out of here.’ The Colonel flicked a thumb at the porter to load the bags, then dismissed him with an efficient nod and a wrinkled banknote. Henry climbed aboard like a rescued castaway.
As promised, Mrs Pelham-Warner had secured lodgings inside the White Town, near the grand buildings of the Esplanade, a location improved in Henry’s opinion when he recognised the view from his window to be of the Chowringhee Road and the Tipu Sultan Mosque. The filigree-topped minarets and green domes loomed more magical in reality than in the sepia photographs in the reference library at home. Not far from there lay the enticing, and, according to Mrs Pelham-Warner, absolutely taboo, districts of Dharamatala and Baitakkhana. ‘My dear boy, they’re full of Portuguese, Armenians, opium dens – and worse.’
Curious to find out about ‘worse’, and eager to see the real India, Henry soon discovered he owed a debt of social involvement to the Pelham-Warners. His job in the Imperial Library afforded plenty of free time, but he felt obliged to endure long lunches and anxious afternoons with the Colonel in the beeswaxed tedium of the Bengal Club, where conversation centred on cricket, polo and shooting tigers. The squatting punkah-wallahs, pulling cords to make the fringed punkah-fans stir the languid atmosphere, fascinated him. The silent servants betrayed no emotion, indignity or boredom. Henry envied such acceptance of one’s place in the world.
Mrs Pelham-Warner whisked him into colonial society with introductions to charming young ladies at gatherings in Eden Gardens. Climate apart, thought Henry, it’s exactly like being in England. Well, not exactly. Here, the rules of the game played out in the brittle atmosphere of class and small talk were even more incomprehensible than at home. Arthur would love it! But for Henry, a lack of dashing uniform, manly physique, or prospect of a large inheritance, proved to be serious faults, which rendered the young ladies less charming than they had, at first, appeared.
Oh! To discover the real India.
One afternoon, when the Colonel was busy, Henry pulled on his hat, stepped outside and dodged across the road towards the mosque and the mysterious lanes off the northern side of Dharmatala. A pan-chewing rickshaw-wallah squatting in the shade of a peepul tree raised his head. ‘Sahib want rickshaw?’ Henry removed his hat, fanned his face. ‘Er…Ah! Yes.’
“Where go?”
Where go? Er… No idea. Clipping the tip of his nose with the flapping brim, Henry blinked, replaced the hat. ‘Into the old city?’ The barefoot Bengali didn’t respond. His eyes were dull, although his hair gleamed in the sunlight, beetle black, stark against the scarlet blossom tucked behind his ear. His jaws continued grinding the narcotic pan leaves, then spread into a grinning rack of crimson teeth. ‘Sahib want la-dies?’ Henry reddened. ‘Certainly not. Just show me round the Old Town.
The rickshaw-puller waggled his head for no apparent reason, then took his place as draught animal between the shafts. Guilt gnawed as Henry edged himself onto the seat and watched the man strain to take up the weight. Eventually, the contraption groaned off into a shaded alley, bobbing to the rhythm of the man’s padding feet: the motion as comforting as a rocking cradle. Leaning back, savouring the caress of the cooler air, he smiled as flower garlands, fringed carpets, sheep entrails, and a riot of hanging merchandise brushed his face like soft horrors in a nightmare. Real India at last!
Everyone was busy. Everyone smiled, stared, shouted: got on with life. The rickshaw lurched round corners. Henry lurched with it, unable to hide his glee. Where crowds slowed them down and the puller picked his way around cud-chewing cows, parked handcarts or crates of strange vegetables on the ground, people offered fruit or pastries. Henry inhaled a confusion of smells: incense, baking, cow-dung, cooking oil; sweat and spices; urine and decay. A laughing child dashed out, waved and threw a marigold, he waved back and placed the flower in his buttonhole.
After further twists of the forbidden maze, they stopped outside a shop, whose dirt-encrusted windows made it impossible to see inside. The rickshaw-puller spat out bits of pan: ‘Chandni Chowk. Old Town.’ He held out a hand. Henry stared at the dusty palm for a moment, then grasped it, dismounted and pulled a note from his wallet with, he hoped, convincing Edward Pelham-Warner assurance. The money vanished. Man and cart melted out of the scene, as if they had never existed. The press of people surged, crushing the marigold in Henry’s lapel, releasing its bitter scent.
What now?
The door of the shop creaked open in answer.
*
The creaking blurs Henry’s memories, pulls him back to the present and the creaking of the boathouse river doors against their chains. He hugs the thing to his body, teeth clamped against the pain. Oh yes, I was a fool. But I’d do it again.
Would I?
He considers this.
Yes. I’d do it again.
The realisation is a surprise. Despite his worsening mobility, to have experienced the gift of love was worth it all. He gnaws his lip. Tastes the blood. Remembers standing outside the shop door watching an orange fly perform drunken circles across the exotic lettering on it. Remembers the hot surface beneath his hand and the hotter air on his face as he entered. Remembers the smoke stinging his eyes and an odour of something abhorrent, of something full of misery. Beeswax!
Henry ignored the warning and went in, past racks of ornaments and effigies towards a glowing forge, set in the far wall. A girl wearing a metal-worker’s leather apron squatted on a low trolley near it, holding a brush. She put the brush down and propelled the trolley towards him using her polish-blackened hands. Gold threads in her sari glistened – the delicate fabric a surprise in this hell-hole. The beeswax smell came with her, transporting Henry into the other hell of school; chill air on his bare buttocks, nose grinding into the beeswaxed desk.
What am I doing here?
The disabled artisan’s eyes soothed his panic. She pressed her palms together, bent her head as if she had been expecting him. ‘Namaste,’ Her slender arms and fingers, glossy as the metal she worked, gestured towards cushions and a table, inviting him to sit. Henry imitated the unfamiliar greeting then sat, accepted a drink. Creeping unease disturbed his stomach but the liquor calmed his fears, banished the beeswax dread. He smiled his thanks, experiencing unfamiliar empathy with his hostess, whose face was tense, strained, as if she nursed inner despair and recognised it in him. After a comfortable silence, the artisan rolled herself to where she’d been when Henry entrered. There, a stranger, a girl he hadn’t previously noticed, was sitting cross-legged on a coffer. The two girls appeared identical. Could they be twins? Physically perhaps, but the second girl’s expression held no sadness, no strain, no tension: her beauty serene. The artisan set the stinking brush and pot aside and presented the stranger, speaking in a voice so soft, he could barely hear. ‘You want?’
Beguiled by the stranger’s eyes, powerless to resist the magnetism of this vision, this incarnation of his longing, Henry met his fate. Her waxy skin, luscious lips and coy elegance, promised seductive motion. Her aura usurped his reason. His body prickled in response to her allure, her confidence, her sensuality. He gasped.
Oh, yes, he wanted.
Henry knew about Indian marriage arrangements. Mrs Pelham-Warner had described the custom of buying a bride – money and gifts changing hands – with relish. ‘Dear boy, one can hardly believe it. Quite barbaric!’ He’d shown polite interest. But here? Like this? Could it be possible? Unable to drag his eyes from the dream within his grasp, he knew he had to have her; had to have her whatever the cost. He opened his wallet. No thought. No question. No haggling. The artisan’s nimble fingers snatched his money, secreted it in her sari.
Henry leaped to embrace his prize. The artisan’s face, now as radiant as the white maw of the forge, shone with joy, hope, satisfaction, but Henry was too ecstatic to question her changed demeanour. She propelled herself to the doorway to watch him leave with her gift: a present from Calcutta.
Henry strode through the maze of alleys, no longer an outsider, no longer alone, in the intoxicating security of togetherness. Passers-by stared, threw marigolds, joined their palms, delivered a deluge of words as if he were doing them a great honour. Only as he approached the White Town and the walls of the Mosque with his new beloved, did any misgivings creep into his mind. What will the Pelham-Warners think?
In the shadow of one of the minarets he gazed at the adorable, docile creature in his arms. To hell with all of them! I don’t need their protection any more. I don’t need anyone any more. I have you. We have each other. Her eyes shone as if she understood, whilst her delicate beauty, graceful posture and demure nature made a magical contrast to the brittled-voiced, class-obsessed, European women he’d met. Henry embraced her, surprising himself at such boldness in the street. ‘We don’t need anyone. We’re going home.’
He hid his lovely girl in his lodgings until the date of the homeward passage, but he worried Mrs. Pelham-Warner might think him rude, leaving so abruptly. Victoria paused in her embroidery: ‘Going so soon my dear? It’s been nice having you. Do give my regards to Gertrude.’
India had worked her magic. On board ship, his perfect, undemanding girl became his whole existence. Sufficient and sufficed, he sheltered her from the stewards’ eyes and no-one asked questions. In the joy of feeling loved, and of being in love. he stayed in the cabin, untroubled by the beeswax reek of the polished maple. On opal afternoons, steaming across the Indian Ocean, he dreamed, dozed, worshipped her through half-closed lids, trembling in anticipation of her touch. Shy, withdrawn, but content to be caressed, embraced, adored, she kept him entranced by her seductive shape, the sheen of her limbs and the lascivious promise of her lips Henry described their perfect future together, hoping she understood. When her mouth softened into a smile and he felt the first twinge of pain he didn’t connect the two events. Her presence destroyed his reason and he ignored the aches. Gripped by dark arousing vitality, Henry had never known such rapture, or such agony.
But, outside their cabin, his vitality waned and the agony increased, numbing his toes, stiffening his knees or stabbing his spine. Each bout unpredictable, harsh, like the punishments inflicted by vindictive school-masters as he bent across beeswaxed benches. Blaming the pain on inactivity Henry took excercise on deck. It made no difference. Perhaps it’s a tropical disease? He dosed himself with quinine, which Mrs Pelham-Warner had insisted he pack. Nothing changed. Unwilling to see a physician, and accustomed never to complain, he bore the discomfort and tried different ways of walking to ease it but relief came only when he stayed in the cabin.
On arrival at his father’s estate in England, the family were away, the staff had been granted a short holiday, so Henry was able to install his bride, unobserved, in his old suite. She sat on the bed like a queen. ‘No need for them to know about you, my lovely, or about our happiness. They’d only spoil it. Why should I share you with them?’ She offered no protest and when everyone returned, he requested meals to be served in his rooms. Mamma’s lack of curiosity in his sudden reappearance didn’t surprise him. Accustomed to his failures, she accepted, without comment, his excuses for his infirmity, his absence from the hunt or from social occasions. He locked the two of them in his suite needing no other company.
As time passed, however, his bride seemed more distant, unresponsive. My fault. What have I done wrong? Is she homesick for the light, the warmth, the colour of India? Having no idea what to do added to his physical misery. Failure, like the vindictive boys at school, never far from his side, returned to haunt him. Her smile seemed almost a sneer. Is she sneering at my pain, my love or just me? One day, as a flicker of movement crossed her mouth and her lips softened, vicious cramp gripped his right thigh. His misery hardened and he questioned his culpability. Indignation grew, then anger and, in time, he shifted all the blame. It’s her. fault. It must be. I can’t think straight. I’m going mad.
Resentment took control, resentment of her parasitic power over his mind and body. In desperation, he locked her in his wardrobe, but her image, seared ito his brain, turned resentment to impotent rage, hatred, loathing. He loathed his crippled state. How can I break free?
Warnings from childhood, about the dangers of the lake, suggested an answer. What if she can’t swim? I’ll drown her. Put an end to it all. No-one will notice. No-one knows she’s here. He’d wait for an evening when the family were occupied.
*
The boathouse door is unlocked. A smell of neglect lingers, but the old skiff nosing at its moorings looks intact. The bundle in Henry’s arms writhes, its fingers free themselves, poke his chest as if she understands what’s happening. Thoughts of Grandfather and distant days of acceptance, blur his intent. The old man’s hunched figure appears in the skiff then fades, and Henry knows a despair, worse, even, than his first night at boarding school.
Father had shaken his hand: ‘This’ll make a man of you, like it did for me and for Arthur. Work hard. None of that namby-pamby drawing foolery. None of your snivelling. D’you hear? Make me proud.’ The chauffeur had driven away, leaving Henry groping in his shorts’ pocket for Grandfather’s letter. Later, sobbing under the bedclothes, he’d read the blurred message.‘Remember your rowing. Keep at it. Another Warrington in the Blue Boat – then see what your father says. No gain without pain. Do it for me. Try, try, try again.’
You believed in me, Grandfather, but I let you down. Didn’t even go up to Cambridge – but you never knew. I won’t let you down this time.
Grandfather’s skiff nudges Henry’s thigh as he gets in and places the bundle in the stern. Released from their chains the river-doors float outwards as the current takes the bows into the stream. Trailing willow strands scratch his shoulders as he straightens course towards the lake and the blanket-shroud slips. His moonlit passenger watches him; her naked flesh more alluring than ever.
‘Why have you uncovered yourself? You’ll get cold.’ He applies more pressure to the oars. Tries to speed up. Tries to make sense of it all. No! You don’t fool me. The movement of the boat’s done it, moved the blanket. You’re not alive. You’re an effigy. A wax-polished bronze statue. Not real. Don’t flash those eyes at me. Don’t wave those Gorgon arms about.
Henry understands everything now. He speaks aloud. ‘We’re going for a nice outing downriver; the lake looks lovely in the moonlight. You’ll enjoy it.’
Grandfather’s voice rides over the rippling water. ‘That’s it, Henry. Eyes in the boat. Set the rhythm. Excellent work. Another Blue. Now see what your father thinks.’
Mustn’t let her know what I’m doing. Pull through. Feather out. That’s better! Can you hear the water chattering along the hull, Grandfather? Are you watching? But the pain…
‘No gain without pain. You can do it.’
But I’m frozen, Grandfather. My fingers are dead.
Jumbled images flash: the lurching rickshaw; the smoky workshop; the pot of beeswax: the identical girls; and the artisan’s strange rapture when he accepted the gift of her disbility.
Henry’s spine is as rigid as cast bronze, but, as the skiff continues along its silvered path, he hears the voice of the only person who ever believed in him. ”That’s it my boy! You’re doing so well. Try try try again!’
But I can’t try again, Grandfather. I can’t bend. I can’t grip. I can’t move.
The bronze idol’s eyes fix on Henry’s, as she sucks out the last of his life-force, enabling her metal body to shed its paralysis and fill with vitality. Her arms encircle her head, busy, purposeful. Finally, she unfolds her legs and stretches. The beeswaxed sneer softens into the luscious lips of his love. How he adores her! Just as much as at first sight in the Calcutta workshop. Were there two girls there, or just one?
Replete with the gift of Henry’s life the artisan in the stern, shifts her head; a lock of hair falls across her cheek; she leans forward. Transfixed, Henry sees her prise the oars from his grip. His mortifying brain just senses her arms reaching to caress him, to hold him, to wrap around his inert body with the tenderness, the loving touch of his dreams. For a divine moment she enfolds him in the embrace he has longed for all his life – then releases him into the depths of the lake.
~0~
Patricia Cammish has had travelogues published in specialist magazines, was a finalist in a radio-play writing contest judged by the BBC and is working on a middle-grade novel. She writes and performs poetry and enjoys escaping London for a life of mediaeval peace in rural SW France.
Judge Brett Alan Sanders enjoyed the flow of the narrative in A Present from Calcutta, saying “the most sympathetic character in this period piece is the mostly invisible one, the titular “present” from old Calcutta, whose rise in the final scene lifts this psychological narrative into the realm of ghost story.”