LOOKING FOR LOUISE

short story by Rudy Otter

Bertie Beckton wrapped his arms around his sweetheart Louise Hartshire,
holding her slim body close, inhaling the sweet natural scent that emanated
from her long auburn hair.

The two 16-year-old Anglo-Indians stayed glued together from lips to thighs,
refusing to part, despite Mr Beckton's exhortations that the train was about to
pull out of Poona that sweltering Sunday afternoon and he had better get aboard
quickly.

"Don't let go of me," Louise pleaded between slobbering kisses, her grey eyes
filled with tears. "Love you, Bertie. Going to miss you. Never see each other
again."

Their tongues collided, sending a delicious shiver down his spine. "Louise,
darling," he whispered. "I love you more than you can ever imagine. I always
will. Always. Always. Always."

"Oh, Bertie," she sobbed, searching his sullen face. "Wish this wasn't
happening. Feel terrible."

Bertie's father grasped the boy's shoulder and pulled him away. "Get on now,"
he commanded, at the same time apologising to Louise, saying "look after yourself,
my girl" and pecking her an affectionate goodbye. He shoved Bertie on to the
train and boarded himself, but allowed the lovesick teenager to hang out of the
window.

Louise was right outside, reaching for his hand, her hair cascading around her
elegant shoulders as she did her best to keep pace with the slowly moving train,
dodging around people and side-stepping bundles along the platform edge.

Within seconds she was forced to abandon keeping up. She stood there, arms
outstretched, head to one side, emphatically mouthing "LOVE YOU." Despite the
crowded platform, he could see her clearly.

Fighting back the tears, he blew her a flurry of kisses which she
enthusiastically reciprocated. Her figure shrank into obscurity as the train
gathered speed. Bertie and his parents were heading for Bombay, then to
Ballard Pier, and on the ship that would take them to a new life in faraway
England.

What a traumatic farewell that had been, way back in 1952, etched in Bertie's
memory forever...

He could recall every detail, every emotion that had engulfed him, every thought

that seared his tormented mind, as if their cruel parting had occurred
only yesterday. He recalled that back in those far-off days, such a parting
would have been permanent, final, the end, ake dhum khalas.

Today, in 1994, things were gloriously different. One-way journeys across the
world, he mused, were a thing of the past, thank goodness.

At the age of 58, Bertie had jetted back to India for the first time since he
and his parents emigrated to England all those years ago. Now he was on a
seemingly impossible mission, and he knew it. In a wild moment, on a London bus,

he decided he had to try to track down Louise, the girl he never stopped loving.

They not only lived next door to each other in their fathers' railway quarters
in Dhond but also startedtheir primary railway school education together there,
as lively 5-year-olds, sitting side by side in class and constantly teasing each other.

The enormity of the task he faced now, of looking for Louise 42 years later,
alternately depressed and excited him. He gazed out of his first-class
compartment window as the Deccan Queen express train snaked through Bombay's
vertiginous ghats on its way to Poona. It was in Poona, his beloved birthplace,
that he and Louise found themselves together again after finishing railway
school, he staying with relatives and going to St Vincent's High School, and she
looked after by relatives and attending St Mary's High School. Their friendship
continued to blossom as they were able to meet every day after school.

In England, Bertie did have various innocent flirtations but cooled off before
they could develop into serious relationships. Persistently, he found, the sweet
memory of Louise kept flooding his thoughts. He felt he had no choice but to
undertake this enormous, some might say crazy task, after their enforced parting
all those years ago.

If, against all odds, he did succeed in finding Louise, what then? He had no
idea apart from hugging and kissing her and asking if she, like him, was still
single, still in love with him, still available and as eager for marriage as he
was? What if she said she was happily married already? He'd still hug and kiss
her,for old times' sake, and reminisce about their former lives together before
flying back to England,
alone...

He fished out of his wallet the monochrome photo of the pair of them sitting
on a Bund Gardens bench in Poona, and wondered if she had changed much from
those distant days. He couldn't imagine her changing; she was beautiful and
would remain beautiful, all her life.

Louise, he speculated, could well have had several children, in which case she
wouldcertainly be a grandmother. Like many Anglo-Indians she could have migrated to
Australia or Canada or New Zealand. She could be divorced. Or,
perish the thought, she could have died years ago, as his parents had. Just
about anythingcould have happened to her.

True to his word, he did write her a couple of airmail letters after moving to
England. She replied to one, the paper stained with tears. Her letter, sadly
incoherent, nevertheless told him all he wanted to know; that she was missing
him as much ashe missed her.

He would like to think that she attempted to reply to his second letter, posted
a week later, but she probably had to abandon the effort as she found the
experience toopainful. His third and fourth letters met with a similar fate and he knew he had
to stop writing, ifonly to do her the favour of sparing her any further agony.

Many years later he wrote another airmail letter, as usual to her Khan Road
address in Poona, but it came back stamped: "RETURN TO SENDER, PERSON UNKNOWN".

He found that India, in 1994, had undergone many confusing changes. Bombay had
become "Mumbai"; He had landed not in Santa Cruz airport (now handling
solely domestic flights) but in the large new Sahar international airport. Poona
had reverted toits original Marathi identity, Pune (pronounced, he recalled from distant
memory, as"Poo-nay". His and Louise's home town, Dhond, had changed to "Daund".
He wondered how Louise would have reacted to all the changes, perhaps playfully
choosingto pronounce the new version of Dhond, with those irresistibly kissable lips, as
"Dah-oooond."
 
From now on he resolved to regard those places as Mumbai, Pune and Daund.
to keep up with the times. A further surprise greeted him when he
alighted at Pune station and hurried through the exit. No tonga stand on the
far right! He and Louise used to hire those horse-drawn carriages and explore
Pune, often dropping off their shoes for repair at their favourite mowchi,
Ramesh, whoworked on a Main Street pavement. Tongas, Bertie quickly realised, had been
replaced by auto-rickshaws that darted in all directions. He wondered what
Louise would havemade of them back in their youth. She wouldn't have stopped laughing.
 
Bertie checked into a nice hotel, the Ashirwad, close to the railway station in
what was still good old Connaught Road, and asked the receptionist for the
Pune Herald. The young man chuckled. "No sir, Maharashtra Herald now," and
handed him a copy. From his room he telephoned the newspaper's advertising
department and dictated to the clerk the words he had carefully composed 
during the flight:
 
"CALLING ANGLO-INDIAN Louise Hartshire, in 1952 teenage resident of Khan Road,
Pune, ex St Mary's pupil, her old pal Bertie Beckton visiting Pune now. Pse
phone him, Ashirwad Hotel..." etc.
 
The following morning he was reading the Herald, which carried his classified
advert, when the room telephone rang. "Hullo, sir," a man's voice said. "You are

Bertie, ah, Beckton, yes?"
 
"Yes," he said. "Who is this?"
 
He said he was Ashok Varma, an old acquaintance of the Hartshire family. "Sir,
I have sad news."
 
"Oh no," Bertie groaned. "What is it?"
 
"Sir, Mr and Mrs Hartshire have passed away many years previously. Their
daughter, Louise..."
 
He broke off. More sad news, Bertie feared.
 
"Louise, very attractive lady, had many offerings of marriage but declined.
She wept, sir, but declined all. Some personal turmoil I think maybe going on."
Bertie recognised her turmoil as his own and became impatient. "So where
is Louise now?"
 
There was a pause. "I think maybe she emigrated."
 
"When? Where?" he pleaded.
 
"I think 1970 or so to Canada after passing the Senior Cambridge."
 
Later, Bertie wondered whether he should place advertisements
in a national Canadian newspaper. Just then another call came through.
The receptionist said a Tony Fernandes had popped in, asking for him.
 
"Good heavens," Bertie said. "I'll be right down." Tony Fernandes! He knew
a Tony Fernanades in St Vincent's High School and hoped it was the
same one. They were always whispering jokes to each other in class and
throwing paperballs at other pupils, then snapping their heads away to
avoid suspicion. What a tremendous surprise, Bertie thought, meeting
after all these years!
 
It was indeed the Tony he knew. Both guffawed and pointed at each other's
balding heads and gravitated into a long embrace. Tony said he was a
chief clerk in a bank and Bertie revealed that he was a "humble waiter"
at an airport coffee bar back in England. Eagerly they recounted their
days at St Vincent's, like the rush to the main gate for snacks during
school breaks, crowding around the carts selling spicy "bhale" enlivened
with tamarind and lemon juices.
 
Louise's whereabouts, however, were a mystery to Tony, a topic
Bertie returned to obsessively during their get-together which involved a
hair-raising auto-rickshaw ride to a great restaurant called Touche
the Sizzler. Tucking into their vegetable biryanis with lime pickle
and jeera pappads, they spoke about their
favourite old Pune cinemas - the Capitol, West End and New Empire.
"Louise's favourites, too," Bertie reminded him and he gave Bertie a
knowing wink. "I used to see both of you, two lovebirds, holding hands,
waiting in the queue to buy tickets." He smiled. "Beautiful girl, I must
say. Very striking. You were a lucky guy, we all thought that."
Bertie nodded, his eyes moistening. Afterwards Tony insisted on
paying the bill. They exchanged details and resolved to keep in touch.
 
A visit to Khan Road, now Marathified to Kahun Road, proved abortive,
as he suspected it might. Later he came across Main Street, now
Mahatma Gandhi Road, and gulped at the many changes. He looked
down and saw a cobbler on the pavement hammering away at a
shoe sole. Bertie stared at the man who seemed an older version
of the mowchi he and Louise used. "Ramesh?" he enquired hopefully.
The man looked up and it was indeed Ramesh. "Arp kysa hi?"
Bertie asked, recalling what little Hindi he and his fellow Anglo-Indians
once spoke. "Teek hi, saab," Ramesh chuckled with joined palms
and mobile head, appearing to recognise Bertie who showed him
the photo of himself with Louise.
 
"Yey missi-baba kidther hi?" Bertie asked, pointing at Louise's
image. Ramesh's eyebrows shot up. He delved into a large gunny sack,
rummaging among a collection of shoes. Eventually he plucked out
a pair of strappy blue sandals tied together that made Bertie gasp.
They belonged to Louise, he was sure of that. Those same shoes
had once adorned her pretty feet. Bertie repeated his question.
Ramesh shrugged. "Marloom nye, saab," was the regretful response.
 
A middle-aged Goan woman passing by, stopped. "Can I help?" she
asked. Bertie thanked her and said to please ask the mowchi when those
shoes were handed in for repair. He replied and she translated.
"Goodness gracious," she exclaimed, "around 1953 he thinks,
but apparently she failed to collect them and he has retained the
shoes all these years, just in case she came back..."

Bertie offered to buy the shoes for 200 rupees. Ramesh politely
declined but after much persuasion, from himself and the Goan lady,
took only 20 rupees. He popped the shoes into a plastic bag for him.
They both joined their palms and gave a little bow to each other in
a courteous and moving farewell.

Instead of returning to the hotel, Bertie decided
to check out their old haunts and went to Bund Gardens.
He imagined himself back there in the 1950s, strolling hand in hand
in the cool evening breeze with his darling Louise, as they often did.
He could picture Louise and himself laughing, teasing each other with
outrageous accusations, she playfully poking him in the ribs and he
reacting in good humour. How could he ever forget that delightful, gently
swaying walk of hers?

Steeped in nostalgia, Bertie rickshawed past the sprawling Sassoon
Hospital where he was born, back to the hotel. A message awaited
him at the reception desk to ring a Mr Pandya at a Mumbai number.
Mr Pandya, a former railway acquaintance of Mr Hartshire, said
Louise, after both her parents died, had gone to to Daund to stay
with an old school friend. Pandya guessed she had probably left Pune
in the mid 1950s but suggested he try the Daund railway institute
as someone there would be sure to help.

Daund, to Bertie and Louise, was exceedingly familiar territory.
Eagerly he got off the train, crossed the railway
bridge to the quarters' side and was amazed to see a row of auto-rickshaws
waiting for customers. Back in the 1950s, in Daund, there were only two
modes of transport, bicycles and legs. Sadly the institute bore
a neglected look, with weeds breaking through the previously
well-maintained tennis courts where Louise always won her
matches. Inside, scene of many Anglo-Indian dances, whist drives,
billiards tournaments and tombola sessions, the place was
plunged in darkness.  The dance floor, where chalk was sprinkled
and little kids like Louise and himself encouraged to slide around
to spread it for the benefit of adult dancers, now felt rough and
uneven under his rubber slippers. A face appeared out of the
gloom. "Can I be of assistance, sir?"

The middle-aged man said Louise had stayed with an old St Mary's
school friend, Mrs Fendworth and her husband, but both expired
many years ago and Louise migrated, not sure whether to
Australia, New Zealand or Canada. "Wedlock," he said in reply to Bertie's
earnest question, "did not seem to engage her interest at all".

Bertie feared all along that he would encounter obstacles and
they didn't come any bigger than this. He consoled himself
by visiting their old railway quarters home, once enclosed by
a strong wire fence with a well-maintained compound which had
now degenerated into a jungle of weeds. The main gate,
on which Louise and himself had swung to and fro, had been
removed. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked at
Louise's now sadly neglected quarters next door, where they once played Seven
Tilesin the compound with other youngsters and she always managed
to rebuild the fallen tiles before anyone could ball her out.

Their old railway school, he observed, was deserted and
crumbling, a sight that would have upset Louise as much as it
did him. The "maidan" or field next to the school, previously
the venue for hockey matches, rounders and New Year
celebratory bonfires, where he and Louise romped with others
around the flames, now housed a cluster ofodd-shaped buildings.

Moving on, towards the station, he remembered Louise and
himself hiring bicycles from a market shop at two annas an
hour and racing each other along Daund's dusty roads.
He also recalled their swims in the Bhima river, frequently
rumoured to be invaded by crocodiles, providing plenty of
scope for scaring each other and splashing out of the water,
screaming. Kite-flying, too, they enjoyed together; also spinning tops with
a piece of twine; and playing hopscotch in front of their
respective verandahs.

On the train back to Pune he wondered about placing
advertisements in Australian, New Zealand and Canadian
newspapers. It was probably his only hope.

Another message awaited him at the Ashirwad's reception desk.
He rang a Mrs Mukherjee, who said she knew Louise from
St Mary's and recalled that she had migrated to Perth in the
early 1960s but years later went on to settle in England.

"England?" Bertie yelped. "Whereabouts, do you know?"
She read out an address in West London, unbelievably close
to where he lived. He took it down and thanked her profusely.
"Don't be too hopeful," she warned. "We lost touch ages ago.
Unfortunately Louise hated writing letters, as you may know."
He smiled. "I know, only too well."

Bertie thanked Mrs Mukherjee again and took the first available
flight back to London, his excitement mounting as the jet
neared Heathrow airport.

He went to the house and jabbed the doorbell five times. An elderly
white woman with suspicious blue eyes appeared and Bertie
asked if Louise Hartshire lived there. The woman studied him
slowly from head to foot. "Who are you?"

"Bertie Beckton, a friend," he said, breathlessly. "A very good
friend, actually." She shook her head. "I can pass on a message.
She's at work now."

"Where does she work, madam?"

The woman glared at him. "I don't think it's my business to tell you."
She added: "You could be someone she doesn't want to see."
He gritted his teeth. "I'm definitely someone she'd want to see, I
can assure you."

"No," she said. "you are a complete stranger. Sorry, can't help.
Goodbye."

She was about to shut the door when Bertie piped up. "Madam,
I've already told you my name, Bertie Beckton. You can check
up where I work. I'm a waiter in a coffee bar at Heathrow airport,
Terminal 3. Their telephone number is..."

The woman interrupted him. "So how come you don't know where
Louise works then? Goodbye."

He stood there, open-mouthed, staring at the closed door, then
turned away. What did she mean? That Louise, too, incredibly,
was a coffee bar employee at Heathrow airport? In which case
his journey to India had been totally unnecessary, Louise not only
living and working in London but in extremely close proximity to
him on both counts.

He tried the coffee bars at three of the terminals, two of which
had a couple of waitresses named Louise but alas, they were
the wrong ones.

Finally he got to the Terminal 2 coffee bar, the last one he needed
to check. He took a different approach here, feeling that success
may well be within his grasp.

Bertie entered and ordered a coffee, sipping it behind an open
newspaper. He sneaked occasional glances left and right but
could see no one that resembled Louise. Half an hour later, he
thought he'd better ask a staff member if they had a Louise working
there, fearing they too would say "no". Which would mean searching
the entire airport and asking dozens of employees, in various
capacities, if they had heard of her, a time-consuming but
necessary task. He resolved to do anything, anything at all,
to make contact with Louise again.

Just then a door near the counter opened and, yes, there she
was, delectable Louise herself, uniformed but unmistakably
Louise. He felt like shouting "whoopee!" and scrambling over
the tables to sweep her into his arms, but somehow managed
to restrain himself. She was still slimmish and straight-backed, her
hair a bit shorter than he remembered it, and the same lovely
swaying walk. She came up to his table with notepad and pen
poised.

Bertie put the paper down. "I'll have a coffee please," He paused.
"Louise".

Taken aback, she glared at him until recognition lit up her
still expressive grey eyes. She yelped in disbelief and her
notepad and pen fell to the floor.

"Bertie!" she shrieked. They hugged each other and kissed.

"My goodness. Don't know what to say!" she blurted. "How did
you find me here? You married or what?"

He grinned. "No, of course not. I've never been married. I couldn't
get you out of my mind, Louise. Just couldn't. What about you?"

She nodded. "Same here. Oh boy, what a fantastic surprise!
Am I dreaming or what?" They embraced again, watched and applauded by
customers who had sensed a long-lost romantic reunion.

When they had extricated themselves, Bertie said: "I have two big
surprises for you to start with. Would you believe I've been a coffee
bar waiter at Terminal 3, right here in Heathrow airport, for the past
25 years."

"Oh no!" she shrieked. Can't believe it! That's about when I started
work here too. Absolutely amazing. All these years, so close. Must
be telepathy."

He agreed and gave her another kiss.

"The second surprise," he said, "is that a couple of days ago I
collected your strappy blue sandals from our favourite mowchi in
Pune." Bertie took them out of the bag. "Here they are, nicely
half-soled, by our pal Ramesh."

"What!" she yelled, grabbing the shoes and admiring them. "After
all these years! You went to Pune looking for me?"

He nodded: "Pune and Daund, actually. I've just returned."

She hugged and kissed him again. "Was in such a daze after you
left India," she said. "Completely forgotten I'd handed
these in to be repaired. Look great, don't they? What an
incredible surprise!"

Another revelation jolted Louise when he said he was living in a
West London flat just three roads away from hers. "What! Can't
believe it! How did you find out where I lived?"

He shrugged. "Long story, for later. Life's very strange, isn't it?"

"Wonderful too," she added. "Full of lovely surprises."

That evening, both of them entered his bedroom to celebrate
with champagne. They clinked glasses, standing close together.
They took long swigs. Louise smiled. "You looking for me, I looking
for you." She rested her head on his chest. "Tell me everything, Bertie.
From that horrible day you left me behind on Pune station, back in
1952."

"Of course," he said, "but first things first." Reaching behind her back,
unchallenged, he unzipped her dress all the way down, allowing it
to fall around her still dainty ankles. She undid and stepped out of her
strappy blue sandals and they both lay on the bed in their
underwear, locked in a long and silent embrace, before Bertie,
unopposed, moved ever so gently to more pressing matters.

THE END

 
* Anglo-Indian Rudy Otter is a retired newspaper journalist and
columnist who now writes short stories with surprise endings for
national UK magazines. He also writes articles and short fiction
on familiar Anglo-Indian themes for the community's magazines
and websites. Email: otterrp@yahoo.co.uk