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Emma was not entirely certain who their hostess was, or what connection she held to
Gerry, but she found herself waving back with wild enthusiasm. The temperature on the dock was
already sickening and both she and Gerry were bathed in sweat. The whole harbor was a sort of
scarcely-contained bedlam, with dogs snarling, carts rattling, coolies shouting, children extending
their palms for coins and pointing pitifully at their mouths as they did so. And then there was the
matter of that old man, standing just before her, who had reached within the folds of his loosely
wrapped garment and extracted something. Something which Emma had failed to recognize until the
man proceeded to make water, nonchalantly and right there on the street. They needed shade, and
transport, and a breeze bought of movement and it seemed that this Mrs. Tucker, whoever she was,
had the power to provide it all. If the wagon so closely following her carriage was meant to hold
their bags, then Emma would fall at the woman’s feet in gratitude.
It was. A swarm of men, a toss of coins, an exchange of greetings, and they were off. At
first the carriage made little progress, both due to the chaotic activity of the dock and the fact there
didn’t appear to be anything in the area which could convincingly be called a street. But then the
driver found a bit of headway, and then a bit more. He was inching toward an opening in the crowd
when Mrs. Tucker wrapped her cane sharply against the floorboards and barked “Not that way.”
The dark-skinned man, evidently accustomed to following directions which made no
sense, obligingly slowed the horses. The second wagon likewise halted, a bit more abruptly, causing
the luggage within it to bounce about unrestrained. They sat for a moment, utterly still, and Emma
was afraid the crowd would engulf them again. She sank back against the dark red cushions, her
damp shirt sticking to their ridiculously unsuitable velvet covers, and shut her eyes. She could
scarcely bear to think they might turn back toward the dock. Not back toward those swarms of street
children, all pointing so incessantly, and yet so hopelessly, toward their empty mouths.
“Thank you for coming yourself to the harbor,” Geraldine was saying to Mrs. Tucker,
“and for your extraordinary hospitality. Six houseguests descending upon you at once –“
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Tucker, tugging at a glove. “Friends from home are always
welcome.”
Now this was strange, Emma thought. Based on the awkward formality, Gerry did not
appear to know Mrs. Tucker at all. Evidently in Bombay, “friends from home” was a vaguelyclaimed
status, applicable to anyone who had been foolish enough to undertake the journey from
London.
The driver had the carriage more or less turned now and was headed away from the
open street and toward one which was much narrower and more crowded. The breeze Emma had so
fervently hoped for was unlikely at this pace.
“Whyever did you ask him,” she blurted out to Mrs. Tucker, “to take another route? We
were making better progress on the other, were we not?”
It was a presumptuous question, especially in light of the fact Mrs. Tucker had saved
them from the pandemonium of the docks, but Emma didn’t care.
The woman looked at her coolly. Her expression, in fact, was the only cool thing in the
carriage.
“The other road,” she said, “leads past the temple.”
“Ah,” said Emma. “And this will slow our progress? It is some sort of religious
holiday?”
Mrs Tucker shook her head emphatically. “The ladies of Bombay,” she said, “do not
travel the road which leads past Khajuraho temple.”