The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  ‘And Dickie Mason is a very sweet man,’ said Lydia. ‘I’m so glad you introduced us. Did you know that Dickie’s mother is a friend of Nancy Astor’s?’

  ‘Dear Lieutenant Mason. How is he?’ Esmie asked, latching onto a name she knew. ‘He was missing home such a lot; I knew you’d be kind to him.’

  ‘I think we’ve cured him of his homesickness,’ Lydia said. ‘He’s the one who invites us to things these days. He’s a bit of a favourite among the ladies of the cantonment. I can see him being in big demand with the fishing fleet girls this cold season.’

  ‘Fishing fleet girls?’

  ‘Esmie, where have you been?’ Lydia cried. ‘You must know it’s the pet name for British girls who come out to India fishing for a husband.’

  ‘Oh, I’d forgotten . . .’

  ‘He’s too young to marry though,’ Lydia pronounced. ‘His colonel would never allow it. Not before he’s a captain at least. So he can carry on having fun for a while yet. Geraldine and I will pick out someone suitable when the time comes.’

  ‘Still playing matchmaker?’ Esmie teased.

  Lydia patted her knee. ‘Well, it worked for you and Harold, didn’t it?’

  Esmie glanced at her husband, talking animatedly to Tom about the various Waziri tribes. She felt a spark of optimism that this holiday would bring them closer together again.

  She gave Lydia a smile of agreement. Now was not the time to hint to her friend that her unorthodox marriage to Harold was under strain. She suspected that if she did it might become a source of gossip for Lydia to discuss with her new confidante, Geraldine. Her problems with Harold were private.

  ‘So when am I to meet your friend Mrs Hopkirk?’ Esmie asked.

  ‘Tonight of course,’ said Lydia eagerly. ‘We’re dining as their guests at the Club at seven-thirty. And then on Christmas Eve we’re invited to a dinner-dance at Flashman’s Hotel as part of their party.’

  Tom interrupted his conversation with Harold. ‘Flashman’s?’ He frowned. ‘You never said.’

  ‘Darling, I’m sure I did,’ said Lydia. ‘You just never listen.’

  ‘But we’re organising a party here . . .’

  ‘What party?’

  ‘Charlie’s making his whisky punch and Myrtle’s doing cocktail food. They do it every year – it’s a Raj Hotel tradition.’

  ‘That’s for the residents, not us,’ Lydia said with a dismissive wave. ‘Besides, the Hopkirks are dying to meet Esmie and Harold. I want to give our friends a good time in Pindi, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Tom, reddening. ‘But I think they’ll enjoy Christmas Eve here – and we’re seeing the Hopkirks tonight.’

  Esmie could see that Harold was embarrassed by their friends’ wrangling but knew he wouldn’t intervene. So she said, ‘Perhaps we could do both? Start here with a cocktail and go on to the dinner-dance?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose we could,’ said Tom with a grateful look.

  Lydia gave a theatrical sigh. ‘If we must. As long as we’re at Flashman’s by eight o’clock. Geraldine hates her guests to be late.’

  ‘Heaven forbid we incur the wrath of the burra-memsahib,’ Tom said wryly.

  ‘Don’t be so snide,’ Lydia chided. She turned to Esmie. ‘Tom likes to think he’s so liberal-minded but he’s just as snooty as his father when it comes to people in trade. But it’s misplaced with Geraldine. She’s just as much gentry as Tom is – her people own land in Buckinghamshire.’

  Esmie saw Tom’s jaw clench in annoyance. Their bickering made her uncomfortable and she didn’t want to be drawn into it. She stood up.

  ‘Well, if we have to be ready for seven-thirty, I think I’ll go for a lie down. What do you want to do, Harold?’

  She saw the indecision cross his face, whether to stay with the Lomaxes or retreat to their bedroom with her.

  ‘I’d quite like to stretch my legs before dinner,’ he said.

  ‘But it’s getting dark,’ said Lydia. ‘You can’t go wandering around here once the light goes.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Tom offered, getting quickly to his feet. ‘We can take a turn around the block – walk as far as the Scots Kirk on the Mall – so you can see where to go on Christmas Day.’

  Harold agreed with alacrity. While the two men set off down the corridor, Esmie retreated to the Curzon Room. French doors gave onto a covered common veranda that encircled the inner courtyard. She stood at the rail, peering out over the courtyard below and saw Tom and Harold cross it, Tom’s hand resting on his friend’s shoulder as they conversed. Their friendship appeared unchanged whereas she was struggling to find anything to say to Lydia – not that she’d been able to get much of a word in edgeways with her friend talking non-stop.

  She was troubled by the deterioration in relations between the Lomaxes. Lydia had complained about Tom in her letters but her tone had still been affectionate. Yet seeing them together, it was plain that they found it hard to agree on anything. She was sorry for Tom being the focus of Lydia’s caustic remarks – they seemed uncalled for. But if the root of Lydia’s unhappiness was Tom’s stubborn refusal to live away from the hotel, then perhaps he should be less intransigent.

  Esmie gazed out over the low hotel rooftop at the vivid orange sky. She had a partial view into the servants’ compound beyond. At a squat bungalow bedecked in streamers and strings of Christmas lights, a girl was dancing up and down the steps, a puppy jumping at her heels. Warm light flooded out of the windows onto the veranda. The excitable dog tripped her and they fell in a heap. Esmie could hear the girl giggling and a woman’s voice calling her inside. The girl scooped up the puppy and went indoors. Only as she disappeared did Esmie realise it must be Stella, the Duboises’ daughter.

  Her heart missed a beat at the simple domestic scene of a girl playing and a mother beckoning her in for supper. Had her own mother called to her with such tenderness when she had been a child? If so, she had been too young to remember it. Esmie was glad that the engaging Stella had a loving home and parents to look after her. She thought Tom was right to keep the Duboises in a job and home, even if it meant less profit for the hotel. She had a sudden understanding of why Tom might not want to move out of the hotel. Here he had a ready-made family of kind-hearted people. Perhaps that’s all he craved. If only Lydia could see that.

  Esmie retreated inside and closed the glass doors against the chill air. She gazed around at the mismatched furniture: a walnut wardrobe, a pine dressing table and two sagging single beds that had been pushed together, flanked by black lacquered side tables supporting two dim electric lamps. The room smelt musty, as if it hadn’t been used for months, but it was spotlessly clean and the bedlinen looked crisply laundered. There was a homely charm about the place but Esmie could imagine how its dowdy appearance might irritate Lydia and lead to arguments with Tom.

  Yet, their marriage was none of her business. She would have to try and stay neutral between her friends if she wasn’t to make matters worse.

  The Club was like a fairy-tale palace of stuccoed crenellations and pillared arches, lighting up the night and spilling light onto the gigantic lawns and shimmering trees of the club grounds. A band was playing on the terrace and Esmie could hear the chatter of dinner guests as they arrived.

  The dining room was filled with men in uniform and dinner suits, and women in evening gowns. Esmie was wearing her best dress – the blue one she had got married in with the wedding lace removed – and a simple silver headband to keep her hair in check. Lydia was wearing a sumptuous red dress that showed off her curvaceous body and drew admiring glances. Esmie thought perhaps her friend’s figure had indeed filled out a little since the summer – her cleavage and hips were more noticeable and her face was a little fuller – but it gave her a voluptuous beauty.

  Lydia was in her element, chatting and flirting and showing off her new friends to Esmie and Harold. Esmie was surprised to find that Geraldine Hopkirk was older than she’d expected, a rather dump
y woman with a large double chin and a piercing voice. But she greeted Esmie as if they were old friends and swept her into the midst of her group.

  Harold was pleased to find that among them were Augustus Tolmie, the headmaster of the mission school in Murree, and his wife Margaret.

  ‘I discovered that the Tolmies knew you,’ said Geraldine, ‘so I invited them down for Christmas. Augustus tells me that he hasn’t seen you since Bombay in September. You must have such a lot of catching up to do.’

  Geraldine leaned towards Esmie and said in a conspiratorial aside, ‘Margaret Tolmie is just back from visiting her frail old mother in Wales – missing her terribly – thinks she might not see her again. But that’s the cross we bear in India – separation from our loved ones in the line of duty. My two scamps are at school in England. Miss them like blazes. Wait till you and Lydia have children then you’ll know what I mean. Mind you . . .’

  She didn’t finish her sentence as she began ordering where her guests should sit. Esmie wondered what observation the woman had decided to keep to herself. Geraldine steered Tom into the seat next to hers. Esmie caught his wry look as he arched his eyebrows and they shared a glance of amusement.

  To her delight she saw Dickie Mason pushing through the throng to join them, along with two of the other young officers she’d shown hospitality to in Taha. They greeted her and Harold with enthusiasm. There was a confidence and swagger about Dickie that was new. He sat between Esmie and Lydia and regaled them with stories of his two-day shikar near Murree. Esmie would have happily chatted to Dickie throughout dinner but felt obliged to also talk to the earnest Augustus who was sitting on her other side.

  ‘Terrible business at Kanki-Khel,’ said the headmaster. ‘I did warn your husband but Guthrie’s known for his stubbornness.’

  ‘I prefer to say fearlessness,’ said Esmie, springing to Harold’s defence. She wondered how news of their narrow escape was already common knowledge in Rawalpindi. But she shouldn’t be surprised; gossip appeared to be the lifeblood of this army town.

  As the evening wore on, the room became stuffy and the conversation more raucous. Esmie saw that Harold was growing puce-faced and sweating in his constricting evening clothes and tight collar. He was sandwiched between Margaret Tolmie and a shy younger woman who seemed to be a protégé of Geraldine’s – perhaps one of Lydia’s fishing fleet girls. She could see Harold struggling to keep up a conversation with her. Esmie flashed him a smile of understanding and went back to listening to Augustus’s long monologue about teaching methods at his school in Murree.

  As pudding was served, Esmie reached for her napkin, which had slipped from her knee. Raising the linen tablecloth a fraction, she saw it on the floor and leaned down to grab it. As she did so, she stifled a gasp. Under the tablecloth she could see Lydia’s hand resting on Dickie’s knee and his hand covering hers.

  Esmie sat up quickly. She glanced at Lydia. Her friend’s cheeks were flushed but she looked back at Esmie with composure.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Lydia asked her.

  ‘Fine,’ Esmie answered.

  ‘I hope you’re enjoying the evening,’ said Lydia. ‘We’ve been dying to have you here, haven’t we, Dickie?’

  ‘Very much so,’ Dickie enthused, turning to Esmie with a disarming smile. ‘I hope you and Dr Guthrie will come to our party at the Mess on Christmas night.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ said Lydia.

  ‘The chaps and I want to thank you both for your generosity to us in Taha,’ Dickie continued. ‘You have no idea how much it meant to us to visit your home – we were made to feel like one of the family.’

  Esmie smiled. ‘That’s kind of you to say so. But it was our pleasure. You and your fellow officers brightened up our quiet home. We missed you when you left.’

  ‘Ooh, apple charlotte and custard,’ Lydia said with enthusiasm as a pudding plate was placed before her. ‘My favourite.’

  Esmie noticed how Lydia’s hand appeared from under the tablecloth so she could pick up both her fork and spoon. Was there a special glance between her friend and the lieutenant as she did so? Esmie couldn’t be sure. She looked up the table towards Tom. He was drinking a lot of wine and talking loudly with Geraldine and one of Dickie’s fellow officers. She felt a stab of pity for Tom, doing his best to entertain his hostess while his wife flirted and brazenly held hands with a handsome young officer just four seats away from him.

  Suddenly, Esmie couldn’t wait for the dinner to be over and for them to be back at the Raj. She would much rather that they had spent their first evening dining in the hotel and getting to know the permanent guests. They seemed an interesting lot and she suspected they would have tales to tell of their long lives in India – stories and experiences that went beyond the narrow confines of the barracks and clubs of Rawalpindi.

  It was nearly another two hours before the dinner party broke up and they climbed into tongas for the short journey back to the hotel. Esmie leaned against Harold in exhaustion and gave a sigh of relief.

  ‘I haven’t eaten that much in ages,’ she said. ‘I’m fit to burst. I think you might have to carry me upstairs.’

  Harold gave a grunt of amusement. ‘Thank goodness that’s over. Margaret Tolmie was on the verge of tears about her mother the whole time, poor lady. And Miss Timmins had no conversation at all except about her dog Trixie. I’m not sure I can bear a whole week of such dinners. And I never got to chat properly with Tolmie.’

  ‘Perhaps you could invite him over to the hotel for afternoon tea,’ suggested Esmie. ‘You’ll most likely see him at the Scots Kirk on Christmas Day, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ said Harold, brightening.

  Back at the hotel, Esmie and Lydia went straight to bed. Harold needed little persuasion from Tom to stay up for a nightcap in the residents’ sitting room. Esmie was asleep in minutes.

  She was woken by Harold stumbling in much later. She’d left the electric side lamp on so that he wouldn’t bump into the furniture. It was a novelty to be somewhere with electricity again. Esmie sat up.

  ‘Sorry, my dear,’ Harold mumbled. ‘Didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she answered, stifling a yawn. ‘Did you have a nice chat with Tom?’

  ‘Umm, yes. And Ansom was still up. Decent man. Engineer. Worked on the blueprint for the narrow-gauge line to Simla. Family’s been in India for three generations.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Esmie, eyeing her husband as he began to discard his clothes.

  This was the first night they had spent in the same bedroom since their flight from Kanki-Khel. She longed for them to be intimate again. She’d loosened the covers between the two beds so that they could reach out for each other.

  ‘You can turn out the lamp, dearest,’ said Harold. ‘I don’t need it.’

  She did as he asked but continued to sit up and wait for him to climb in beside her. She held her breath as he did so. He lay on his back and gave out a heavy sigh and a waft of stale whisky. Would the alcohol have fuelled or blunted his ardour?

  ‘Harold?’ she murmured.

  ‘Umm.’ He sounded on the verge of dozing off.

  ‘Will you hold me?’

  He hesitated and then put out an arm. Encouraged, Esmie snuggled into his hold and waited. After a few minutes, when he hadn’t pulled away, she said softly, ‘I was worried you were still angry with me for us having to leave Kanki-Khel so quickly. Is that why you haven’t come to my bed? I’ve missed being with you.’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Harold?’ She put a hand on his chest. His breathing was regular. He was already asleep.

  Esmie sank back in disappointment. It had been unrealistic to imagine that Harold would have the energy for love-making after such a long and tiring day. It was hard to believe that they had left Taha in the early hours of that morning. In a few minutes’ time it would be Christmas Eve. Esmie took heart from the thought that there would be plenty of ti
me over the next few days for her and Harold to lie together and resume their former intimacy.

  Half an hour later, Esmie was still wide awake. Her mind went restlessly over the evening. Was there something going on between Lydia and Dickie? Surely not? All she had seen was a second’s glance at Lydia’s hand touching Dickie’s knee and his fingers on hers. It might have been a fleeting moment – a sisterly pat on a younger man’s knee. At the most it was Lydia being flirtatious. She had always been demonstrative in her shows of affection. It didn’t mean anything more serious.

  Esmie got out of bed, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and padded over to the French doors. Slipping past the long curtain, she opened the windows as quietly as possible and went out onto the veranda. She shivered in the chilly air, yet it was mild compared to a winter’s evening at home in Scotland. The sky was littered with stars and there was a faint light coming from the next-door window – Hester Cussack’s room. Other than that, the hotel was in darkness and all was quiet.

  Esmie breathed in the scent of wood smoke that hung in the air – and something else – cigarette smoke. She glanced along the veranda in the other direction and saw that it was blocked off by a bamboo screen and some sort of climbing plant. The end of the veranda was private. Suddenly she realised that beyond was the Lomaxes’ flat. The Curzon Room was a buffer between the proprietors’ bedroom and the rooms of the residents. That was why it smelt of neglect; it probably hadn’t been used since Tom and Lydia took over the hotel.

  Esmie’s insides fluttered to think that Tom had been standing close by, on the other side of the bamboo screen, smoking and looking out on the same scene. Perhaps he too was sleepless while his wife was not. She rested her elbows on the railing and closed her eyes, trying not to think about him. It was then that she heard the muted noise. Steps on creaking floorboards? She stood up and moved towards the screen. Was Tom coming out onto the veranda again?