The sky was grey and cloudy, and a fine mist of rain fell over the docks of the George V Royal Navy docks. Amidst the gathered crowd, Elizabeth was waiting impatiently for the arrival of the Admiral Gardner, a merchant transport ship returning from India laden with tea and salt for the good people of Britain. But that was not all; the Admiral Gardner was also transporting certain high-ranking Indian officials, along with British officers and politicians. Among them was Henry, the man Elizabeth was madly in love with. Henry was an officer in the British Army, currently serving in the colonies. He was responsible for maintaining security in one of the provinces of New Delhi. In all there were several million English soldiers tasked with bringing order to a colony where peaceful revolution was a constant fact of life, and where the local population numbered in the hundreds of millions. The last time Elizabeth had seen Henry was three years ago. She had some to the docks to wait for him just like today, and welcome him back to London, and now history was repeating itself.
The ship’s horn blared, and one of the port officers told the wives it would be docking soon. Elizabeth could not wait to see Henry again after three interminable years with only his letters to comfort her, her heart leaping when she saw their red wax seals drop through the letterbox. She imagined Henry writing his wonderful love letters by candlelight, under torrential rainfall. How many times had he written, “I love you, and think of you every day”? How many times had she asked, “When can I come to see you in India?” She dreamed of tasting the exotic foods with their strange-sounding ingredients: paprika, turmeric, or saffron. In his letters Henry had described to her the vivid colours of the spice markets, from scarlet reds to golden yellows and spring greens. With his words he strove to paint a picture of the swirling aromas that mingled in the air, and then there were the fabrics! He told her of the softest silks, the shimmering saris, and the delicate embroidery. Elizabeth liked to imagine herself in one of those outfits, summoning heavy rains in that far-off country. More than anything she wished to see the Taj Mahal, that incredible temple built in the name of love. But Henry replied to her that India was a place of unrest, for a man named Gandhi was calling the people to rise up against the British. Even Churchill was talking about him, calling him a “seditious fakir,” and his photo had been in the paper. What had the article been about? Elizabeth remembered: it was about the Salt March. Like Jesus and his Apostles, Gandhi had gathered a group of ten disciples, and they walked for two hundred and fifty miles from an ashram in the North to the coast of the Indian Ocean. “If this Gandhi were one of our prophets, he’d have parted the waters too,” Henry had joked. But Elizabeth admired his courage and conviction. You wouldn’t see Churchill walking two hundred miles!
The ship’s horn sounded three times. The boat had docked, and the sailors let down the gangway for the passengers. Elizabeth’s legs trembled, and her eyes welled with emotion. The passengers from India began to get off. Women on the quayside could be heard weeping with joy. They rushed to their men, showering them with endless kisses. Those three years had flown by, and yet it had been a long, hard wait. Elizabeth still could not see her Henry. Men filed down the gangway, their suitcases in their hands and duffel bags slung over their backs. More cries of joy were heard, but what of Elizabeth’s? How would she react after three years of exchanging letters? What would she do when she saw him, his face browned and weather-beaten from the journey? A few moments went by, before one of the port officers announced that all passengers were now ashore. “Returning passengers from India all disembarked!” he cried aloud.
But where was her Henry? He had written that he would return for New Year’s Eve. Now she stood alone on the docks. She asked the port officer if Henry’s name was listed on the passenger manifest. He acquiesced, unfolding his papers. Henry had indeed been on the boat, but where was he? Elizabeth began to lose her cool. “That’s fine, thank you sir!” Then, she heard a voice call to her: “Elizabeth, Elizabeth!” From out of the mist she saw a vague figure walking quickly, carrying a small case in his hand, wearing an oilskin and a British army cap. Elizabeth ran to him, crying “Henry! Henry!” She saw his face through the mist; it was Henry, returned to her at last.
Alan Alfredo Geday