bc

Tragic Magic

book_age12+
97
FOLLOW
1K
READ
adventure
warrior
twisted
mystery
straight
bold
brilliant
magical world
realistic earth
special ability
like
intro-logo
Blurb

Regina Mabel husband Dennis is off in India for his overseas work leaving Regina who was already pregnant for him at home in Scotland, after giving birth the baby dies and they are both devastated, Dennis asks his wife to come join him but she never made it to her destination.

chap-preview
Free preview
Chapter 1
Chapter 1 'So this is the Hooghly, I said, looking down on the murky swell beating against the ship. The Mulbera, after her long journey, had halted at the mouth of the river to await the arrival of the pilot. 'Why is the water so dirty?" I turned to the young purser, standing beside me. 'Is the anchor stirring up the mire?' No,' he laughed, 'the anchor has nothing to do with it. It is the silt that's carried from the hills and the Ganges down to the Hooghly. It always looks the same - mud-coloured.' I was disenchanted. Who would wish to swim in this, I thought, remembering the crystal waters of the northern Dvina in Russia where I spent my childhood and the silver-dappled Tay of my youth in Scotland. Yet, on the following morning when the ship resumed her journey I realized I had been wrong. Bengal is green. The Hooghly, with her coffee-coloured waters seen against the lush emerald banks, spangled here and there with crimson blossoms, has a beauty of her own. The Mulbera was now zigzagging up the river on her last lap to Calcutta. It was there that my husband, Dennis, would be awaiting my arrival. It had been a long time - almost two years since his last leave in Scotland, when we had decided that the child we were expecting would be born in Scotland and that later the babe and I would embark for India. Such were our plans. All went well, but when our son was six months old and I, with cheerful optimism, began to prepare for our departure - fate stepped in. Our child was struck down by a serious and prolonged illness at the end of which he died. Dennis never saw his son. Six months later, in August 1937, I packed my bags and set off for India. My mother, who a year earlier had seen my brother leaving for Venezuela to join the British Controlled Oil Company, decided to accompany me to the ship. We travelled together from Dundee to London where we spent two nights, attended the theatre, saw the sights and eventually, after some exciting moments when our taxi became wedged in the traffic, boarded the boat train. Aboard the ship some friends joined us for lunch. It was a cheerful gathering soon to be interrupted by the call of, 'All friends ashore! I have a memory of my mother, a forlorn figure dressed in brown, standing a little apart from the others, calling out in a bantering tone, which I knew was only to hide her sense of loss, 'Try to control your passion for cream and chocolates - don't eat so much - you must keep slim!' I laughed and waved my hand. All around me people were hanging over the side, calling out their last farewells. Gradually the figure of my mother grew smaller, soon to vanish out of sight. The cabin, shared with a pleasant lady from Cornwall, was spacious and comfortable. I soon became acquainted with the wives of two tea planters and a lady from our own parts who was the wife of a jute mill manager and returning to India from a visit to her own people in Scotland. Having spent a few years in India she was very knowledgeable and free with her advice and instructions to such a greenhorn as myself. The journey as a whole was uneventful. The ship halted briefly off-shore from Tangier. There, for the first time, I caught a faint smell of the East. On the distant horizon a string of camels were seen wending their way. Later, in Malta, we were allowed to go ashore. The day was hot and sultry. We strolled around, admired the Cathedral and bought some hand-made lace from ladies dressed in black. In passing, a large white hat caught my attention. I bought it and wore it on the launch returning to the ship. A playful gust of wind suddenly carried it away. There was nothing I could do but watch my precious hat slowly vanishing beneath the waves of Valletta harbour. Prior to my departure for India I received a letter with instructions from Dennis. When you arrive in Port Said,' he wrote, "you must go to Simon Artz and buy yourself a topi. It is very important that you should wear one. The sun can be very dangerous in the tropics and a topi will protect your head.' When we arrived in Port Said I duly went to Simon Artz, the departmental store which seemed to sell everything and can perhaps be remembered still by those who travelled east in those far-off days. There I saw a topi and also an attractive ring with a semi-precious stone. I put aside the topi and chose the ring. Perhaps, unconsciously, I was ahead of my time. When I left India twenty-six years later very few people wore topis. Back on the ship we were off again and sailing past the monument to the creator of the Suez Canal, Ferdinand de Lesseps, whose extended arm is seen pointing to the East. In the years to come I was fated to travel several times through the Suez Canal. On each occasion I experienced a sense of wonder at the magnificent achievement of the French engineer who cut a passage of a hundred miles through the dusty desert and shortened the journey to the East by many weeks. How good, how peaceful, it was to relax on the deck of a ship gliding serenely between the banks. How strange to watch a modern car speeding along the smooth highway on one side and on the other the desert, sand and camels. After the Canal there was a short halt at Suez and then on to the Red Sea. The hot, hot Red Sea. I have heard friends say that they had sailed through the Red Sea when it was cool and pleasant. Such luck didn't come my way. Memory has only retained four stifling days and sleepless nights. Yet it was here during this torrid spell that a strange coincidence took place, a coincidence which suddenly transported me to a distant Arctic land of dark winter days and white nights of summer.

editor-pick
Dreame-Editor's pick

bc

The Venerable Swordsman

read
2.5K
bc

Descendants Of The Moon Goddess

read
92.9K
bc

Supreme Emperor of Swords

read
1.7K
bc

His Redemption (Complete His Series)

read
5.6M
bc

Revenge On The Rejected Alpha

read
12.7K
bc

Wolfe's Blind Moon

read
76.5K
bc

Her Forbidden Mate

read
11.5K

Scan code to download app

download_iosApp Store
google icon
Google Play
Facebook