Glasgow, 1941On 31 May, 1941, The Empress of Scotland slips out of Glasgow harbor like the moon out of a cloud. Its gleaming hull cuts through midnight black waters as it sails up the Clyde estuary heading towards the Firth of Clyde. A young woman, just turned twenty-three, pins her eyes on the scene by the quay even as it slides out of sight. Though it was a foggy night, the top of the tower of St. Mungo’s Cathedral could be seen, and once she’s placed it, she knows exactly where her mother would be—there by the docks, still peering at the vanishing ship. She imagines her standing there, elderly before her time, a bent figure in her old tweed skirt and faded mackintosh, worn green wellies, grey hair sticking out from a scarf tied tightly around her head, and recalls her parting shot. “You take that ship right back, Mairi, my girl. India’s no place for a young Scottish lass. Yer home’s Glasgow, and don’t yer ever forget it.”
She takes a long, lingering look at the shoreline. The ship would sail past the Mull of Kintyre, then begin its long voyage through the Atlantic Ocean and across five seas—the Norwegian Sea, the North Atlantic Ocean, the South Atlantic Ocean, the Indian Ocean, the Arabian Sea. Her head spins just thinking of it. Water would be her element for the next two months. She follows the crew members indoors.
Mairi watches them wheel the gurney down a long, carpeted hallway. One of them stops by a door, turns the key in the lock. He opens it and stands back, “This is the room, miss.” She examines it critically. Larger than her room at home, it has a bed against one wall; a desk and a chair; an armchair; a floor lamp for reading. The lamp has a red-fringed shade with glass beads hanging off the fringes, a decadent touch in an otherwise plain room. She turns the handle on the bathroom door. A tub, a sink, a toilet. Functional, spare, and adequate.
“We were told there would be a nurse tending to the patient. We removed the second bed so there would be more space for you to move around,” he says. She nods, turns to look at her patient. He is unaware, still in a coma. Eyes closed, face impassive, body still and swathed in sheets, he looks incongruous—a young man who has seen the face of death and is still in shock from the encounter. The anxious pucker around his lips has gone. Maybe he’s sensed that he’s away from danger now, he’s in safe hands. She reaches for his pulse. It beats as steadily as a metronome.
The other crew member says, “You all right, sir?”
“Sure, you go on upstairs.”
“I hope my room is close. I will need to be with him all day,” Mairi says.
“Yes, miss, this one’s yours.” He slides an interconnecting door open. A smaller version of the patient’s room, just as adequate and functional. He shuts it. She watches his hands as they move back and forth, strong, muscular hands, hands she could use, if the need arose.
As if reading her thoughts, he holds out his hand. “I’m Will Sinclair, miss. Head purser. At your service.” She takes it. “Thanks, I’m Mairi McNulty.” He looks at the sleeping man on the gurney. His eyes take in the purple-black bruises covering the entire right side of his face. “What happened to him?”
“He was at a workers’ meeting in Glasgow, giving a speech on British rule in India. He was shot, and fell. Fractured his skull and broke his leg. He’s been in a coma.” She looks at the stretcher. “Shouldn’t be travelling in this condition but his father wants him back in India as soon as possible.”
“Shot?” Will says. “By whom?”
“No one knows.”
He gives the patient another look. “Poor bloke. Best to get him home quickly, ain’t it? India, eh? Almost all the way to the end of the line then. Karachi’s just before Bombay, our last stop.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
He whistles softly. “It’s long—especially the way we have to go now. U-boats and Krauts everywhere. The route used to be via Ireland, but they’re neutral. The Krauts hide their ships there. Now we go up to Greenland, then down through the Atlantic to the Cape of Good Hope, past Mozambique and Madagascar then across the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea to Bombay. Twice as long, but safer.”
“And we’ll get there when?”
“About seven weeks. May go faster, depending on headwinds.” It oppresses her just to think of it.
“Goes by quickly, miss. Don’t worry. Lots of entertaining characters on board. British soldiers who sing and play their harmonicas, Hindu strolling players, Arabs . . . and there’s children who don’t really know it’s wartime so they play, like kids do, everywhere. You won’t be bored.” Then, looking at the gurney, “Do you want to move him, then?”
“Let’s do it together,” she says, sliding her hands under the patient’s feet. Carefully, delicately, the purser places his hands under the patient’s shoulder blades and moves the top part of his body sideways onto the bed; she lifts his legs and in one swift move, moves them to the bed. Will tucks the sheets tightly around the patient’s body. “There! He’s securely in now for the night.”
“Are there any regulations we should know about?”
“A few. Lifeboat drills everyday—when the klaxons start blaring, drop everything and follow the rest of the passengers.”
She looks at the sleeping man. “He won’t make it.”
“Leave him here. I’ll come down and help if there’s a real problem.”
“I’ll be exercising him on the deck when he’s strong enough. He’s got to use his muscles.”
“Aye, the sea air’ll do him good. And there’s one other thing—please leave those portholes blacked out. Can’t even smoke up there on the deck. We travel in darkness.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Get a good night’s sleep, miss.” He rolls the gurney to the door.
“You from Glasgow, Mr. Sinclair?”
“That I am, miss. Born and bred.”
Like me, she thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud.
“Well, good night.”
“Good night. Thanks.” He shuts the door quietly behind him and the soft click makes her turn to the prostrate body on the bed. “It’s you and me now,” she says aloud. “I’m counting on yer.”
She shivers, feeling the sudden slight chill in the cabin. “No lights soon,” she says to herself, a reminder to unpack as quickly as possible. Forty-five minutes after departure, the lights will be turned off completely. She unzips her patient’s bag, starts hanging up his clothes in the closet. Shirts, trousers, two pairs of shoes, a pair of sandals, socks, underwear, pajamas. Everything feels cared for, well worn to softness. The colours are muted, the bright yellows and reds of his homeland caught in skeins of wool in a scarf, or in a pair of woolen socks. There are two small oval silver frames. She picks them up, stares intently at the photos. Mother and father, she assumes, a petite, determined-looking woman in a sari, its drape covering her head; she has a heart-shaped face, full lips, and beautiful eyes, Mairi notes, the way they catch the light even in the dulled photograph; the father in a suit and waistcoat, his polished shoes shining out of the dull glass frame. The other photo is of a young woman in a tennis skirt and shirt, soft curls framing her face, holding up a tennis racket with a winning smile. A white girl, girlfriend, maybe. A beauty, a tennis player—but a star, more like. She puts the photos in a drawer; they’ll come in handy later, to test his memory.
There are three books at the bottom of the case, along with a piece of fabric folded into a tight knot. It’s flowery and silky. She takes it out and unties the knot. The garment cascades out of its folds, releasing a scent of faded lilacs, perhaps, she thinks, sniffing it. It is a kimono, black and painted all over with gay yellow, blue, and red butterflies. It is a vision of joy, and she shakes it this way and that. The butterflies flit about her as she swishes the fabric around. His?
She gives him a quick glance. Is it her imagination or is his mouth slightly open now? She takes his pulse again, checks his breathing. Everything is normal. She returns to the books. One is A Passage to India, which she remembers nearly buying in a jumble sale at St. Mary’s Cathedral last year, until a pair of used wellies in good nick got her spare coppers. She flicks it open and sees an inscription on the title page.
To Shiv, a great friend, a passionate orator, and a Londoner of the first order: The fugitive years do hasten by, dear friend, and it falls on the torchbearer to tell his tale. We await your story. —Morgan
Copyright © 2025 by Beena Kamlani. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
