She had a sudden poignant memory of her father holding her hand by the lochside – she couldn’t have been more than five or six – and coaxing her into the water. He had taught her to swim in this very loch and when they’d moved to Ebbsmouth they had gone sea bathing together. Esmie thought fleetingly of the day she had swum in the cove with Harold and Tom. She had struggled not to stare at Tom’s tall athletic body and powerful limbs thrashing through the surf and had resisted the urge to trace her finger along the scar on his shoulder. She needed to expunge that memory. A cold swim would distract her fevered thoughts and dampen her desire.
Esmie discarded her clothes and waded naked into the shallows, sending out ripples across the calm surface. She gasped as she struck out into the loch and the deeper icy water. It took her breath away but filled her with exhilaration. This was the first day of her new life and she would embrace it with all her being. She would find a way to break through Harold’s physical reserve. Like her, he was probably a virgin and feeling anxious about sex. That was why he had seized on the idea of abstinence to cover his embarrassment at her raising the issue of conceiving a child. It was her own fault for blurting out her fears when all she should have done was accept his proposal with enthusiasm.
As she swam back towards the beach and glimpsed the guest house on the hillside, with the daylight edging across it, she thought of the self-effacing man lying in the upstairs bed and felt a sudden affection for him. They just needed time to get used to each other; she mustn’t be impatient with him. She was sure that she had done the right thing in marrying Harold. Together, they were going to do important work and – Esmie smiled to herself – probably read a lot of books.
Rubbing herself dry with a scarf, every inch of her body tingled as she fumbled back into her clothes. She wondered what adventures she would have and what places she would see before she next plunged into the waters of Loch Vaullay. Whatever the future with Harold had in store for her, Esmie knew that she was now ready for it.
Chapter 11
SS Galloway Castle, early September
Esmie spent the first week of the three-week voyage to India confined to their cramped second-class cabin being seasick. The bad weather that had dogged them through the Bay of Biscay had continued into the Mediterranean.
‘I’d forgotten what a bad sailor I am,’ she groaned as Harold hovered over her in worry. ‘I’ll be fine. Just leave me to sleep.’
‘You’d feel better being up on deck,’ he said. ‘Get some fresh air. Take your mind off it by watching the waves.’
At the mention of waves, Esmie leaned over and heaved into a tin bowl by the bedside. She sank back and closed her eyes. ‘I can’t move that far,’ she said weakly. ‘Please don’t feel you have to stay here. Go and enjoy yourself, Harold.’
He went, still muttering that fresh air would be the cure. Esmie couldn’t bear to move. She tried to lie as still as possible and think of something else – something useful. In her head she went over the latest words of Pashto that Harold had been teaching her and which would be essential for living among the tribal people. She had also learnt that the name Pathan was just a general name used by the British for all Pashto-speaking people. There were, in fact, dozens of different tribes throughout the North-West Frontier, many linked through kinship but each jealously guarding their own territory.
‘Sounds just like our Highland clans in days gone by,’ Esmie had said as her husband had pointed out areas on a Victorian map he’d found among Aunt Edith’s books.
‘Exactly like,’ Harold had agreed. ‘They have chiefs called khans and the men are heavily armed at all times and use the same tactics of surprise in lightning raids on their enemies. A terrifying sight by all accounts – bearded and shrieking and brandishing weapons.’
‘And will we be treating such men?’ Esmie had asked, eyes widening.
‘Of course,’ Harold had said. ‘If they come to the hospital we can’t turn them away. Sometimes we have to make sure that feuding families are kept at opposite ends. But most of the time we are dealing with farmers and their families – with similar accidents and ailments as our own folk.’
Esmie had tried to memorise Harold’s information about the different tribal areas. The mission hospital at Taha was in North Waziristan, which was populated with Waziris, while to the north of it, close to the Afghanistan border, they ran an outlying clinic in the mountainous Kurram Valley in the Kohat region. Here lived Gurbuz and Otmanzai.
‘Both are tribes of the northern Waziris,’ Harold had explained. ‘But the Otmanzai are more powerful.’
When Esmie had looked perplexed, her husband had said, ‘Think of the Waziris as a confederacy – like Clan MacDonald – with the Otmanzai as a senior branch.’
Esmie had nodded at this, so Harold had continued with enthusiasm.
‘Of course there are other important tribes too; the Afridi to the north near Peshawar and the Mahsuds to the south who have their own sub-tribes such as the Manzai and Bahlolzai. The Mahsuds are the ones who have been causing so much trouble this summer in attacks on British soldiers. Then there are other smaller tribes; Bettanis and Bannuchis and Ormurs . . .’
‘Stop!’ Esmie had cried. ‘I need to write all this down.’
She had done so and Harold had tested her each evening before he would read to her.
Now, as Esmie lay on her narrow bunk feeling ill, the names of the Pathans swam behind her closed lids like elusive fish. She wondered if Tom had fought against these tribes and if so which ones. He had belonged to the Peshawar Rifles so had probably seen action against the Afridis. What had his first wife Mary done while he’d been posted to outlying pickets in the Khyber Pass? Had she revelled in cantonment life or found time hanging heavily on her hands?
Had Tom’s young bride been ill on board ship and apprehensive about the life she had chosen or had she stood at the deck rail with Tom and been impatient to get to India? She wanted to ask Harold these questions – to hear more about Mary – but didn’t want to betray her feelings for Tom by bringing him up in conversation.
Lydia, by all accounts, was revelling in her new adventure. There had been letters from Marseilles and Port Said enthusing about life on board in First Class, with dinners, dances and deck games.
We’re rubbing shoulders with the cream of British society in India. Do you know what the top civil officials call themselves? The Heaven-born! Isn’t that priceless? And they certainly think they are too. I introduce myself as a captain’s wife, otherwise they simply wouldn’t speak to me. We’re having such a marvellous time. Mummy and Daddy are enjoying every minute and have made heaps of friends – all the young officers love them – that’s why my dance card is always full! And we’re waited on hand and foot. India is going to be such fun!
As the ship pitched in the sea swell, Esmie couldn’t help a weak smile at her friend’s excitement. Lydia was making the most of her new life. Esmie closed her eyes. Marriage to Harold was certainly not romantic, but then he had never promised that it would be. He was solicitous and brotherly but to her frustration he made no attempt to touch her and seemed embarrassed by her bedtime pecks on the cheek. The only time they had shared a double bed was in Mrs Macmillan’s attic. When she had snuggled up to him and put an arm about his waist, he had tensed and then after a gentle pat on her hand had rolled onto his side and out of her reach.
Since then they had slept in single beds – neither Isobel nor the Guthries had double beds in their homes – and on board ship their cabin beds were hardly wider than luggage shelves. At least they were lucky not to be sharing their billet with anyone else.
She had the impression that Harold’s fussing over her illness was masking a certain relief that she was too unwell to bestow night-time kisses. They hadn’t even seen each other undress. Harold would always hurry to the bathroom when she began to disrobe, taking his pyjamas with him and waiting long enough for her to have got into bed before he returned. Not that she had any energy for intim
acy in her present state, Esmie thought weakly.
It would be different once they got to India and became more accustomed to each other. Familiarity would bring greater warmth between them. It was just that they were both used to living single lives – particularly for Harold at thirty-three years old – and they needed time to adjust to being together. She sighed, willing the voyage to be over and for the day to come when she could bear to stand up and feel human again.
By the time they reached Suez Esmie was up and about and beginning to enjoy the journey. On the second-class deck, she joined in games of quoits and tennis and helped supervise activities for the children. Harold had made a new friend, Bernie Hudson, who was returning from furlough to Peshawar and worked for the Agriculture Department. He was a likeable eccentric who stubbornly refused to replace his deerstalker hat with the ubiquitous solar topee that everyone else was now wearing to protect their heads from the sun.
As they entered the Red Sea, the temperature rose and the breeze dropped. The crew changed into their light-weight white uniforms and passengers sought shade from the fierce sun. First-timers to India complained of the furnace-like conditions in the cabins with no sea breeze wafting through the ventilation pipes.
‘I’m just thankful for the calm sea,’ Esmie said to Harold and Bernie as they lounged in deck chairs. ‘I don’t mind the heat.’
‘My dear girl, this is nothing,’ said Bernie. ‘Wait till you get to India.’
‘I can’t wait.’ Esmie smiled, placing a hand on Harold’s arm. She felt him stiffen and quickly withdrew her hold. She was beginning to realise that Harold was particularly uncomfortable in front of others with her small gestures of affection. She saw from Bernie’s look that he had noticed this too but he carried on chatting as if it hadn’t happened.
‘Good job all that business with the Afghans is over,’ Bernie said, reaching for his snuff box. ‘I hear the RAF planes put the fear of God into them – they’d never seen them before. They scattered, leaving their guns behind.’
‘Guns that our friends the Waziris and Mahsuds have got their hands on, unfortunately,’ said Harold with a shake of the head. ‘But I’m assured that all is now calm in Taha.’
‘Well, if not,’ said Bernie, taking a pinch of snuff, ‘you are very welcome to stay with me in Peshawar until things are safer. The cantonment there is well fortified and I’m rattling around in a bungalow that’s much too big for a bachelor.’
‘That’s very kind,’ said Esmie. ‘I’d be interested to visit Peshawar sometime.’
‘Then you—’ Bernie broke off to give a loud sneeze. He pulled out a brown-stained handkerchief, blew his bulbous nose and wiped his greying moustache. ‘Must come and stay,’ he said with a broad smile.
Chapter 12
The Raj Hotel, Rawalpindi, September
‘Is that it?’ Lydia stared in disbelief at the sprawling, low-lying building beyond a bald patch of grass and a dilapidated fence of flaking brown paint. ‘It’s falling to bits. Half the render – or whatever you call it – has come off.’
‘It’s superficial damage,’ said Tom, hiding his own dismay and helping her down from the tonga that had brought them from the railway station. The hotel didn’t look anything like the artistic drawings in the particulars of sale apart from the two palm trees shading the rusty iron-roofed portico and the glimpse of a veranda beyond.
Tom glanced round to see his servant, Bijal, supervising the unloading of their luggage. The sight of his calm, efficient bearer who had met them off the boat in Bombay gave Tom courage.
Tom said brightly, ‘You’ll have fun choosing a fresh colour scheme, darling.’
He saw Lydia’s chin tremble. ‘I wish Mummy and Daddy were here.’
‘They will be soon,’ Tom encouraged, squeezing her hand. ‘It’s only fair they should have a few days of sightseeing in Lahore – they’re on holiday after all. And it gives us a chance to come on ahead and prepare things.’
He studied her warily. She had once again clamped her eau de cologne-soaked handkerchief to her nose. It was a mistake bringing her the short route through Saddar Bazaar past the noxious-smelling abattoir and the packed streets. Despite it being late afternoon, the heat was still intense and Lydia looked exhausted under her new solar topee.
‘Can’t we book into Flashman’s?’ Lydia asked. ‘This place doesn’t look habitable. Even the sign has fallen off its hinges.’
Tom couldn’t help imagining what Esmie might say about the place with its covered-in veranda which someone had made an effort to decorate with brightly coloured pot plants. ‘Charming – faded grandeur – but charming.’ Lydia was going to take a lot more convincing than her best friend. Harold and Esmie would be halfway to India by now . . . He banished the thought quickly.
‘Dubois, the manager, is expecting us,’ said Tom. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine inside. Come on, Lomax Memsahib; let’s go and inspect our new property.’
As he took his wife by the arm, a porter and a young boy came dashing down the hotel path. Reaching them, the plump dark-haired boy grinned and stuck out his hand.
‘Hello, I’m Jimmy Dubois. You must be Captain and Mrs Lomax. I’ve been keeping an eye out for you. Sunil will take your cases. Have you had a good journey?’
Tom shook the boy by the hand and smiled. ‘Hot and tiring,’ he replied. ‘But we’re very happy to be here.’
Jimmy scrutinised Lydia. ‘Are you feeling unwell, Mrs Lomax? Do you have a cold? My mother can get you a hot toddy.’
Lydia shook her head but kept the handkerchief in place. ‘It’s the smell and the dust. Just get me inside.’
‘Please,’ said Jimmy, ‘follow me.’
To Tom’s astonishment, they were met at the entrance by a large number of staff lined up under the portico out of the fierce sun. A short, plump dapper man in a suit with a purple cravat and matching handkerchief approached them, beaming.
‘Captain Lomax! Madam! Welcome to the Raj Hotel.’ He gave a courtly bow, ushering them into the shade. ‘Charlie Dubois at your service.’ He clicked his fingers and a servant stepped forward with a tray of drinks and dampened face flannels. ‘Please,’ said Charlie, ‘avail yourself of refreshment and mopping of the brow.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tom, taking a flannel and wiping his sweat-stained face. He turned to Lydia who was looking askance at the flannels. Picking a glass off the tray he handed it to her. ‘Looks like nimbu pani, darling.’
‘Most reviving,’ said Charlie, his round face creasing in a smile so broad his thin moustache almost disappeared.
Lydia took a tentative sip. Her face puckered in distaste. ‘Smells of rotten eggs,’ she muttered. She put it back on the tray. ‘No thank you.’
Tom, embarrassed, seized another glass and downed the drink in one go. The lime flavour was tinged with sulphurous rock salt. It reminded him suddenly of Peshawar and his former home with Mary. Since arriving back in India he’d thought about Mary more than he had in years. The unexpected memory shook him and he quickly dismissed it.
Charlie began introducing the Lomaxes to his family and staff.
‘Meet my good wife and better half, Myrtle Dubois – and this is our daughter, Stella.’
A diminutive, pretty woman with large dark eyes and a leggy girl with honey-blonde hair both bobbed in a curtsy. The girl spoke.
‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m seven. Your frock is very pretty, Mrs Lomax.’
Lydia smiled for the first time. ‘Thank you, Stella. So is yours.’
The girl grinned in pleasure but Myrtle pulled her daughter back with a look that told her not to interrupt her father’s introductions. Charlie continued along the line of servants with a string of names that Tom knew he wouldn’t remember; there seemed an endless number of house and kitchen staff.
They were interrupted by a shout from inside.
‘Charlie! Don’t leave the poor Lomaxes to wilt in the heat. Bring them in, for goodness’ sake!’
Charlie spun o
n his well-polished shoes. ‘At once, Mr Ansom, sir! They are just partaking of a quick lime juice.’
‘I’m sure they could do with something a lot stronger,’ another male voice called out.
Charlie chuckled and swept his arm in an expansive gesture. ‘Please, Captain and Mrs Lomax; come this way. The guests are most impatient to meet you.’
The line of servants parted as Charlie led them into the hotel lobby. Stepping from the dazzling sunshine outside, it took a moment for Tom to see anything in the gloom of the interior. It was instantly cooler under the whirr of ceiling fans. After a few moments he could make out dingy green walls, a clutter of cane chairs and tables, huge potted ferns and a large mahogany desk covered in ledgers which were propping up a sign saying, ‘Reception.’
Standing in various poses among the rattan furniture were half a dozen elderly men and women already dressed for dinner and clutching drinks. He felt as if he’d stepped into an Oscar Wilde play.
A tall, craggy-faced man came forward and wrung Tom by the hand.
‘Name’s Ansom. Retired engineer. Railways. Good to meet our new owner.’
A more portly man, a tumbler of pink gin clenched in his thick fist, introduced himself next. ‘Fritwell. Ex-army like you. Looking forward to having a good chinwag. You can call me Fritters – everyone else does.’
Ansom, who seemed to have assumed leadership of the guests, introduced Tom to several more. One lady waved an ear trumpet at him and smiled. ‘Delighted to meet you, Captain Womack.’
‘And this is retired Detective Inspector Hoffman,’ said Ansom, ushering forward a man with an eyepatch and a lugubrious look. Hoffman tapped his patch and said, ‘Blinded by a firecracker in Simla, not very heroic.’
The Emerald Affair Page 14
