“Who told you to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to kill him now?”
Nicky looked round the dark, silent faces. The young man she’d charged at stood directly before her, smiling, his small teeth brilliant amid the gorgeous beard. Only one of his eyes looked directly at her. The other one squinted crazily over her right shoulder. “No,” she said.
“But if he tried to make the bus go again?” asked the man.
“Yes,” she said.
The hands let go of her and she swayed. An arm curled round her shoulders to stop her falling — a woman’s arm this time.
“You will come with us,” said the man. It wasn’t a question. Now, at last, she looked up and saw that the speaker was the big man who had been pushing the old woman on the cart. A woman in a blue dress, the one who’d answered the question about the sickness, knelt down in the road and started to sponge Nicky’s bleeding knees.
“Yes,” said the young man, Kewal, smiling and squinting. “You will be our canary.”
“Kaya?” said one of the women.
“When the miners go into the coal mines,” explained the young man importantly, “they take a canary with them; if there is firedamp about — that is carbon monoxide, you know — the bird feels it before the miners. Just so this girl . . . what is your name, miss?”
“Nicola Gore.”
“Just so Miss Gore will be able to warn us of dangers which we cannot perceive.”
“You are willing?” asked the big man.
“Most people call me Nicky,” she explained.
“Good,” he said, as if she had answered “Yes.” She had in a way.
“Our names are easy too,” said Kewal. “All the men are called Singh and all the women are called Kaur.”
Several of the group laughed in a fashion that told Nicky that it was an old joke. A high, imperious voice croaked from the handcart.
"My grandmother does not speak English,” explained Kewal as the big man turned and began a conversation in the strange language. Nicky realized that all the talk about the canary had been in English for her sake. The woman who had been dabbing at her knees rose and took her hand and started to clean the grazes.
"How is your head?” said a voice at her side. "I regret that I had to hit you so forcibly.”
She turned and saw the fat man who had first spoken to her. He was smiling nervously. His eyes had the look of a dog’s which thinks it may have done something bad but doesn’t want you to think so.
"My uncle is very quick and strong,” said Kewal. "Although he does not look it.”
There was another little laugh among the group. Nicky felt her cheek.
"It’s all right,” she said. "It’s still a bit sore but it’s all right. It doesn’t matter, Mr. — er — Singh?”
Her voice turned the last two words into a question. She knew that Kewal had been joking, but she didn’t know what the joke was. However, the fat man smiled and nodded. The old voice creaked another order. You could hear it quite plainly through the chatter of the rest of the group.
“Come,” said Kewal. “My grandmother wishes to speak to you.”
The old woman was still just as terrifying as before. She lay on her elbow on the cushions and stared. She wore about five necklaces, and every finger of her left hand had at least two rings on it. Nicky wanted to propitiate her, to make her less fierce and strange, so without taking her eyes from the many-wrinkled face she began to grope in her satchel. The old woman spoke two sentences and the big man laughed.
“My mother is pleased with you,” he said. “She says you fight well, like a Sikh. But now you must fight for us, and not against.”
Nicky’s fingers found what she wanted. She walked right up to the cart.
“Would you like this?” she said, giving a little half curtsey: the old woman might be a witch, but she was a queen too. Nicky put the gold and coral necklace down an a blue satin cushion. The ringed claw picked it up and the bright eyes examined it, stone by stone. The old woman clucked, spoke again and put it down on the cushion.
“My mother is grateful,” said the big man. “She says it is good gold and well-carved beads, but you must keep the necklace. You are to help us and we are to help you, so there is no need for an exchange of gifts. We will protect you, and share our food and drink with you. In return you will warn us if we seem to you to be embarking on anything which is dangerous or wrong. Things like Kewal starting the engine of that bus. Do you understand?”
Nicky tore her eyes at last from the old woman's. “Yes, Mr. Singh,” she said, more confidently this time.
The big man’s lips moved into a smile under his dark-gray beard.
“You will have to learn our other names too, you know,” he said. “Now we must march on. You will walk with my sister’s family. Neena!”
Nicky picked the necklace off the blue cushion. She was glad she hadn’t had to give it away.
II
FIRST NIGHT
NEENA, the big man’s sister, was a dark little woman, only two or three inches taller than Nicky.
“You may put your satchel into my pram,” she said. “I expect you are very tired.”
She spoke so softly that Nicky could hardly hear her. She looked tired and worried herself. A sulky baby sat in the pram, almost hidden by a hill of bundles.
“Thank you,” said Nicky, and propped the satchel on the handles of the pram, leaning it against the bundles. Then she found she was still holding the lemonade bottle which she’d taken out to fight with, so she unscrewed the top and started to drink. The lemonade was nastily sweet and warm, and very fizzy with the shaking it had had, so that the froth bubbled back into her nose and made her sneeze;
through her snortings she heard the boy in the pram begin a slow wail.
“Oh dear,” said Nicky, “is that my fault?”
“He is thirsty,” said Neena, “and we cannot spare much water because we have to boil it all.”
She leaned her light weight against the handles to get the pram going as the rest of the group moved off. Nicky, walking beside her, felt in the satchel for another bottle and handed it to Neena. The baby was watching; its wail softened to a snivel.
“No,” said Neena, “it is yours. You will need it." “I can easily break into another pub,” said Nicky. “That’s how I got these.”
Neena looked at her doubtfully for a moment. “Thank you, Nicky,” she said. “Push the pram please, Gopal.”
A boy about Nicky’s size took the handles and started to shove while Neena rummaged in her bundles for a mug; she filled it from the lemonade bottle and tilted it carefully to the baby’s lips. The baby put up a hand to steady it, but did not help much; still, Neena managed very cleverly despite having to glide beside the pram.
“My brother is nicer than this, really,” said Gopal, “but he knows that something is wrong and that my mother is worried.”
“Are you really all called Singh?” said Nicky in a half-whisper.
“Yes. It was an order of the guru three hundred years ago that all Sikhs are called Singh. It means ‘lion/ and we are a soldier people.”
He spoke very proudly and seriously.
“What are Sikhs?” said Nicky.
“We are Sikhs. My people are Indians — Indian Indians, of course, not American Indians — but many of us came to England, especially after the war. We have a different religion from you and from other Indians, and we carry five signs that we are different. Other Indians wear the turban, for instance, but we do not cut our hair or beards at all, ever; we carry a sword, to show we are soldiers; we wear a steel bracelet; we . . .”
“I can't see any swords,” said Nicky, who had been puzzled by the explanation. She felt that she ought to know about the war, and about Indians, just as she ought to have known about turbans, but she'd forgotten. She was irritated by being forced to recognize another of those moments when she saw or heard something which felt as though she’d dreamed it before, but had forgotten the dream.