Barbara Cleverly by Ragtime in Simla Page A

not yet officially known that Korsovsky’s dead and he wasn’t due to perform until the day after tomorrow so I would guess that all goes ahead as planned. Won’t be much of an evening, I’m afraid; it’s very early in the season and they won’t have had much time to rehearse. The Operatic Society are doing a turn or two. Bits and bobs, you know, a sort of review to open the new season – “The First Cuckoo” or “Ragtime in Simla”, something of that sort. Look, there’s no reason why you should go, Joe. Why don’t you recover from the rigours of the journey?’
    And to an aide-de-camp entering at that moment, ‘This thing at the theatre tonight, James – don’t have to go in uniform, do I? Black tie be all right? Well, there you are, Joe. If you want to come – black tie.’
    Bathed and changed (black tie, white mess jacket) and after an outstandingly good dinner washed down by two bottles of claret, Sir George and Joe set off together in the carriage, two attendant aides-de-camp on horseback, two syce on the box and one man running in front with a lantern. Joe lay back enjoying the busy glamour of Simla. The whole town seemed to be on the move. Rickshaws, one or two carriages, men in dinner jackets – a few in uniform – women in evening dress and long white gloves making way for Sir George who bowed and smiled absently as they went by, Sir George pointing out the sights.
    Joe was enchanted by the strings of electric lights which marked out the narrow and winding road ahead. Dipping and climbing and skirting the pine-clad slopes they looked like garlands on a Christmas tree. A full April moon added a natural illumination to the scene and Joe felt his spirits reviving. He made a polite remark to Sir George on the quirkiness of the architecture of Simla, pointing ahead to the slopes of the Lower Bazaar, clinging like a swallow’s nest to the hill. It rose in uneven layers, topped by corrugated iron roofs and dissected by flights of stairs climbing to the Mall above.
    ‘It’s a really terrible place, Simla!’ said Sir George confidentially. ‘Edwin Lutyens – architect chap – New Delhi – had it absolutely right. Took one look at Simla and said, “If one were told that the monkeys had built it, one could only say – What clever monkeys! They must be shot in case they do it again!” ’
    He burst out laughing. ‘That really says everything that needs to be said but, all the same, everybody will tell you – when you come up from the plains you feel twenty years younger in Simla. It’s not only the fresh air. It’s the atmosphere. Irresponsible, you know. An adventurous spirit. Even at my age I feel it. No wonder people go off the rails from time to time when they get here. Most of them come up to Simla with the firm intention of going off the rails! So, my boy, mind what you’re about!’
    Through the thickening crowd and threading their way though the parade of timber-framed and Anglicized villas, they clattered across the Combermere Bridge and the pale bulk of Christ Church came in sight.
    ‘There’s the cathedral for you,’ said Sir George unnecessarily. ‘People talk about the Anglican compromise – not much compromise about that! It’s as unashamedly Home Counties Gothick as you could find. You must go and look inside sometime. Frescoes were designed by Kipling’s father. And if you’re here on Sunday you must come and saunter about on the terrace amongst the rank and fashion.’
    ‘I’m not expecting to have much sauntering time,’ said Joe drily.
    Turning a corner they came on the theatre, brilliantly lit.
    ‘Might be a Victorian music hall,’ said Sir George. ‘Hindu Baroque I always say.’
    With a certain amount of flourish the carriage came to rest. A syce went to the horses’ heads, ADCs dismounted, carriage doors were opened and Joe and Sir George stepped down into the throng that opened up for them. As they entered the foyer an ADC leaned forward and murmured, ‘His Excellency isn’t here tonight, Sir George, nor the