Free Anila's Journey by Mary Finn Page B

for us to sit.
    I told Mr Walker how the banyan tree got its name. I think he knew the old story already but he pretended not to, to give me the pleasure.
    The first people in the world thought the banyan tree was no good because it had no fruit and no flowers. Even its wood would not burn well for fires. But a wise man said that the tree should be left to grow because the gods must have put it there for their own reasons. So the tree grew up without any name. It grew out, and then it grew down until it made more shade than any other tree in the world. Then the banians, the merchant sellers, came to set up their stalls underneath it. People called it the banyan tree and in every village where it decided to grow, it had the place of honour.
    â€œHoy! Walker!”
    An Englishman in dark clothes was approaching the banyan tree. His face was red and hot-looking and when he came into the shade, he took off his hat to wipe his forehead. I saw that he wore a wig, a poor one with a pigtail that seemed to be made of donkey hair, it was so grey and coarse. It hung crookedly round his face, one side too far forward, the other too far back.
    â€œCrocker! I would not have taken you for a botanical man,” said Mr Walker. His voice had no welcome in it, I thought, but he stood up.
    â€œOh, I have my secrets,” Crocker said. “Like any man.” His eyes passed over me, up and down, then slid over the boy and the remains of our food. He leant forward over my bag and scooped up some of the broken roti with his damp fingers. “Are you not going to introduce me?”
    Mr Walker muttered our names so fast that all I noticed was that he said Crocker’s name first. Jeremy Crocker. Then mine. That was what Miss Hickey would have done. That order meant that I was grownup, a lady.
    Ladies have the advantage in introductions, Anila. Remember that. We have few enough fiddle-faddles that go in our favour
.
    â€œMiss Tandy is the finest artist from nature that I have seen in Calcutta. I have been very impressed by her drawings this morning.”
    â€œI’m sure you were, Walker, I’m sure you were,” Crocker said. “Miss Tandy, indeed. I wonder now, after all.”
    He did not say what he wondered but he kept staring at me. His wet eyes made me think of leeches and I did not want them to look at me. I pulled my scarf over my forehead and looked down at my feet. But he had more to say.
    â€œWell, that’s one for the books, I daresay. The dedicated scholar finally falls for native charms, just like the rest of us…”
    Mr Walker moved towards him, and, thin as he was, his fists were up like a fighting man’s.
    â€œDamn your filthy impudence, Crocker. You were ever a disgrace to the Company and to your country. Clear off from here, and make sure you do not journey back in our boat or I’ll have the ferrymen pitch you out in mid-channel.”
    Crocker moved away. When he reached the path he turned and offered me a small unpleasant bow. I looked away. I felt dirty. But straightaway I felt more sorry for Mr Walker than for myself. He was banging the poor banyan shoots so hard with his hand that it must surely bleed.
    â€œThat ditch-born weasel, that apocalypse,” he said at last, spitting out the words. “I apologize for his boorish behaviour, Anila. Crocker is known from here to Madras and beyond for it. He has been in charge of the Writers for many years and I pity the young men who have to humble themselves to such a character from the day they arrive in India. I’m sure he sends them down all manner of crooked paths.”
    What did I remember, suddenly?
    Yes, Anila, you’re right, that
is
an ugly face I’ve drawn in the gutter spout. That’s a real face too, and I’ll you about its owner sometime when we’re far far away from him
.
    I also understood properly Chandra’s cross words about what might be said about his master, having me turn up on