by M A Bennett
I went silent. Then a thought occurred. ‘The picture in the hall,’ I said. ‘The one you took down. What was it of?’
‘The Queen of England,’ he said.
Then his mother came back.
9
As soon as the princess sat down with us, a man dressed in a long white coat and a white turban came over.
He was bearing a tray set with a china teapot and three fine china teacups, just like the ones we had used at Cumberland Place at tea with the countess. As Shafeen’s mother picked up the teapot and performed the international action of pouring tea, I studied her properly. Again I clocked the comparison between her and Caroline de Warlencourt. She too was beautiful, with no more than a few fine lines mapping her face. She, like Caro, had a much older husband. If Aadhish and Rollo were together at Longcross in 1969 they were both heading for seventy. But I wouldn’t put Caro and the Princess Himani at more than fifty or so. That meant both mums had become mums at a normal sort of age, but the dads had become dads much later in life. Why? Had Rollo, as Caro had once hinted, been playing the field before settling down to produce a son and heir? Had Aadhish done the same?
The man in white came back with an amazing silver cake stand stacked with tiny fancy cakes and sandwiches, just as you might see in a swanky English hotel. There was a folded newspaper on the table in front of us, and Shafeen moved it helpfully so the cake stand could be set down. ‘Father still gets The Times from London, I see.’ He gave the corner of the paper a contemptuous flick.
‘Whenever he can,’ said his mother, pouring another cup collectedly. ‘Although they are sometimes a good few weeks behind. This is the one he was reading on the morning he … he …’ Suddenly her face crumpled and she put down the teapot with a crash.
I said comfortingly, ‘I’m sure he’ll be back home soon to finish it.’ I took the teapot from her and started pouring the tea myself.
As I did so, Shafeen said gently, ‘Mother. What happened that day? Did you see him have the attack?’
‘Me? He wasn’t here, priy.’
‘Was he at the bank?’
‘No. He’d had his breakfast, here at this table. He’d eaten his white toast and his marmalade from Fortnum & Mason, and read his Times newspaper, just like he always did. It was just like any other day.’ Then she frowned, and the fine lines deepened. ‘Except …’
‘Except?’ prompted Shafeen.
‘Except he didn’t finish,’ she said. ‘He didn’t have his second cup of tea, like he always does. And he didn’t finish the paper. Usually he reads it cover to cover. When I came down –’ She turned to me. ‘I rise much later, my dear – his toast was still on his plate, half eaten, and his tea was still in his cup, half drunk.’
I set down the teapot, job done. ‘And where had he gone? To work?’
‘Well, I thought so. But it turned out he hadn’t gone to the bank. He’d gone to the Tiger Club.’
‘The Tiger Club?’ Shafeen sounded gobsmacked.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘What’s the Tiger Club?’
‘It’s an exclusive club, up in the hills,’ he answered. ‘It was founded in 1859 in the days of … you guessed it … the Raj.’
‘Is it like the STAGS Club?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘For a start, it’s in the country, not the town. It’s all green lawns and colonnades and cool fountains.’ He was doing that thing where what he was saying seemed nice, but he was clearly disapproving.
‘Oh, it’s a marvellous place, Greer,’ said the princess, just as obviously approving. ‘There’s a library, a dining room and even an ice-cream parlour.’
‘You’ve been?’ I asked.
‘Many times,’ she said. ‘Aadhish is a member, of course. And Aadhish’s father, the maharajah Kasim Jadeja, Shafi’s grandfather, was the first Indian member.’
‘Tell her when,’ said Shafeen sardonically.
‘1959 they started to admit Indians,’ she said, with no trace of bitterness.
Her son was not so forgiving. ‘So to recap: one hundred years after it opened, in India, the Tiger Club admitted Indians.’
‘And what do people do there? I mean, why do people want to join?’
‘Gentlemanly pursuits,’ said Shafeen bitingly. ‘Not indoor ones like the STAGS Club – not so much chess and fencing. It’s all polo and swimming and croquet. And, of course, their USP – the Tiger Hunt.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘They don’t hunt any more, of course. Now it’s all safaris for members and their honoured guests. But that’s what it was set up for. You can’t escape the hunt, wherever you go, Greer.’
‘Shafi’s grandfather Kasim used to go on the hunts. In 1961 he went on one with the Queen of England and Prince Philip,’ boasted the princess proudly. ‘We have a –’
‘So what was Father doing at the club that day?’ interrupted Shafeen abruptly.
‘I’ve no idea. But he went straight there – left his breakfast, as I said, and had Hari drive him up there. He told Hari to go home and that he would call for him later, and then the next thing I heard was that he was in the hospital. He’d had a heart attack at the club, and they’d called an ambulance.’
‘Big of them,’ said Shafeen. I wasn’t sure why he was being so vicious – I could understand him not loving the Tiger Club if they were connected to the detested Raj, but it sounded to me like they’d done the right thing by his dad.
‘Speaking of the hospital, I ought to get back.’ She swapped her plait from one shoulder to the other, as if it was a device to change the subject. ‘So, children. For dinner – what would you like? How about roast beef and Yorkshire pudding? Or would you prefer roast chicken?’
I looked from mother to son. I remembered last year at the other house the menu had seemed pretty British, but I’d assumed that was just for my benefit. ‘Oh. I mean – don’t change the menu on my account. I mean, I don’t need to “eat English”, as it were.’
The princess looked a little surprised. ‘My dear, that’s what we usually eat. It’s what Aadhish likes.’
Shafeen gave me a look that said told you, but other than that he wasn’t really helping me out. I said, ‘If you don’t mind … I mean … if there’s a choice, and it isn’t any trouble, what I’d really like to try is some Indian food. You know, traditional Rajasthani dishes and stuff …’ I trailed off.
But the princess actually looked pretty pleased with what I’d said. ‘Well, that might be a nice change. Priy?’
‘I’m happy,’ said Shafeen, and he looked it.
‘There then. That’s settled.’ She squinted up at the white sun, which had moved behind a shady tree as we’d been talking. ‘I must get back to the hospital. I won’t tell Aadhish about the dinner.’
Realising belatedly that this was a joke of sorts, I smiled. ‘And I expect, Greer, you’d like to lie down in your room?’
As soon as she said that, I suddenly realised how tired I was. The jet lag was really kicking in. ‘Actually, I would really like that.’
Hari, who had reappeared, showed me to my room with his ever-present smile. At that moment I couldn’t have told you what the room looked like, only that it had a bed in it. I closed the shutters against the fierce sun, and the cry of the peacock was the last thing I heard before I slept.
10
Rested and dressed, I went down to dinner and the first thing I saw in the dining room was the tiger-skin rug.
I’d only seen a tiger-skin rug once before and that was at Longcross. I remembered that one being a bit bigger and paler. I knew absolutely zero about tigers at this point, but I would say at a guess that the one at Longcross was a male and this was a female. This gal was magnificent – her pelt a searing turmeric colour and her stripes inky black. A queen among tigers. Her jaws were wide, showing sharp, white teeth, her snout creased in a snarl and her glass eyes stared in absolute rage that anyone would dare to end her life.
I don’t know w
hy but I bobbed a little curtsy to her. ‘Your Majesty.’ As it happened, I was wearing just the right thing for curtsying – a long, flowing turquoise dress sewn with little gold peacock feathers. I don’t need to tell you that the dress wasn’t mine. Obvs I had nothing with me for a winter term at STAGS that would double up for a boiling-hot April in Jaipur. Someone had left it out for me while I slept. Once again, I was reminded of Longcross.
Shafeen came out of the dark to greet me. He gave me a cool kiss on the cheek, but his eyes were warm. ‘Did you sleep?’
‘Yes. It was amazing. You?’
‘No.’ He didn’t expand on that. I didn’t know whether it was worrying about his father that had kept him awake, or whether he was used to the journey and jet lag.
He looked lovely in an open-necked white shirt, and trousers held up with what looked like a school tie, striped in orange and black like the tiger. His dark hair was all ruffled from the shower and his feet were bare. Sometimes I’d see him as if it was for the first time and couldn’t quite believe how lucky I was. ‘I see you’ve met Melati.’ He nodded down at the tiger affectionately. ‘My father loves her.’
I noticed how everything came back to Aadhish but was heartened to hear Shafeen speak of him in the present tense. It was strangely hopeful.
Once we’d politely skirted the tiger – I saw that Shafeen deliberately avoided treading on her and I copied him – I noticed the rest of the room. It had those lovely frilly interior arches that were a feature throughout the whole house, but this room was covered in mosaics. The mosaics were of flowers in vases and birds in skies, but it wasn’t so much the designs that were special, more the colours. The whole place looked like it was set with jewels.
There was not a dinner table as such, but a sunken surface surrounded by fat silken cushions. Shafeen’s mother was reclining on one of them.
I greeted the princess, and once again noticed her lovely floral scent. ‘I love your perfume,’ I said. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s Guerlain L’Heure Bleue,’ she said. ‘Aadhish buys it for me, so I wear it for him. Always the same one.’
‘Tell her why,’ said Shafeen, half amused, half exasperated.
‘Because it is the scent worn by the Queen of England herself,’ said Himani. ‘It’s her favourite perfume.’
I sat down on one of the cushions. ‘You don’t have a table,’ I blurted out like an idiot.
They both smiled smiles that were uncannily similar.
‘We do,’ said the princess. ‘But we are giving you the authentic experience. Don’t expect cutlery either.’
What followed was one of the most delicious meals that I can remember. We had chapattis and curries, samosas and pakoras, and sweet mango lassi to drink. I copied the Jadejas and ate with my hands – they managed it neatly and I made a right old mess, but no one seemed to care. The food was full of flavour and colour and heat, and I properly stuffed myself. The jetlag and the sleep had made me ravenous, and I really found it hard to stop eating. This meal could not have been more different to the genteel tea on the veranda, with the polite cucumber sandwiches and the tower of cakes. I certainly knew which I preferred.
And it seemed that the princess, in a much more refined way, felt the same. She sat back on her cushion, laid her ringed hands on her knees and ceased to look worried for the first time since she’d woken from the couch.
I smiled at her. ‘Was it good?’
She smiled back. ‘I haven’t eaten like that for years. I used to have all this in my father’s house before I was married. Shafeen’s father won’t touch it. He says he last had curry in England, funnily enough.’
‘Yes, he had it at Longcross.’ I nodded to Shafeen. ‘Don’t you remember? When we were at the STAGS Club, Rollo said your father insisted on curry when he went to stay for the weekend in 1969.’
Shafeen turned to his mother. ‘Did Father ever tell you about his school days? At STAGS?’
‘No. I just remember that when it was time for you to go to school he insisted you went there. There was never any question of you staying here. A proper British education, he said.’
‘What about a weekend at a place called Longcross, back in 1969? Did he ever talk about that?’
‘That was well before I knew him, of course. But I never heard of the place until you stayed there.’
‘What about a school … friend called Rollo?’
She shook her head and her earrings flew about her cheeks like gilded hummingbirds. ‘No. Never.’
‘That’s so weird,’ I said to Shafeen. ‘Your dad clearly meant so much to Rollo; odd that he would never mention him.’
‘Is it? He never mentioned Rollo to me either. Or STAGS, or Longcross. Until I went to school I’d never even heard the name de Warlencourt.’
Himani sat up suddenly. ‘De Warlencourt? I know de Warlencourt.’
‘You do?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘That name is almost as connected to this place as ours is.’
I pointed to the sunken table, as it was in the centre of the room. ‘To this house?’
‘To India. To Jaipur. To the Tiger Club.’
‘How?’ Shafeen sounded nonplussed.
‘They were presidents of the club for years. Didn’t you know that?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Josiah de Warlencourt was the founding president in 1859. Then there was his son Edwin.’ She counted these dead de Warlencourts off on her ringed fingers. ‘Then Robert de Warlencourt. Then his son Montgomery was president after him.’
‘Wait,’ I said, exchanging a glance with Shafeen. ‘Monty de Warlencourt?’
I remembered, as I could tell Shafeen did, that night at the drinks party in Louis’s rooms in Honorius. We’d spotted the elephant’s-foot bin and wondered who had killed the unfortunate creature. Cass had told us that it was the twins’ (and Henry’s) grandfather Montgomery de Warlencourt. Colonel in the British Army, magistrate at Jaipur during the Raj and all-round shit.
I left out the shit bit, and asked, ‘Colonel in the British Army and magistrate at Jaipur?’
‘That’s him, yes,’ said the princess. ‘He died a few years ago.’
I remembered that too – when Cass had been telling Shafeen about going to Jaipur she said they’d all gone out there for Monty’s funeral.
‘He was president of the club for a long time,’ Himani went on. ‘He was there when Shafeen’s grandfather was admitted.’
Prem came over to clear all the detritus away, but the princess didn’t pause. Here there seemed to be no secrets from the staff, as there had been in Cumberland Place.
‘Monty was the chief magistrate for the whole Rajput area. He and Kasim – Shafeen’s grandfather – had their differences. Kasim was forever defending the Indians who had ended up in court, facing Monty’s harsh sentencing. But in the end it was Monty who forced through Kasim’s membership to the club. I never understood why, as they never seemed to get along together. But maybe they were friends after all. Anyway, it always seems to be one of that family who holds the presidency of the Tiger Club.’
Prem came back with a silver dish full of brightly coloured sweetmeats and set them down before us.
‘And who is president now?’ I asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘But whoever it is, they deserve our thanks – they got Aadhish to hospital in good time.’
Shafeen took one of the tiny puddings, carried it almost to his lips, then put it down on his plate.
‘Mother. When we were at Longcross at Christmas, you know that there was that fire?’
‘I know. Thank the gods you were safe.’ I noticed the plural. ‘Your father felt responsible for that.’
‘For the fire?’ asked Shafeen. ‘How?’
‘Not for the fire. For you being there. When he heard about the fire, he said he knew he should have stopped you going.’
I remembered the difficult phone call Shafeen had made at Cumberland Place, telling hi
s father that he wouldn’t be home for Christmas.
‘Yes,’ said Shafeen. ‘He said I was putting my hand in the tiger’s mouth. I was only able to convince him by saying I was going to help a girl who was in trouble.’
‘Ty?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Ty. I actually told him that I was going to rescue a damsel in distress. That’s the sort of chivalrous, archaic language he understands.’
‘So what did he say to that?’
‘He said, Well, my boy, in some circumstances a gentleman has to put his hand in the tiger’s mouth.’
‘And this damsel in distress,’ put in his mother. ‘She was rescued?’
‘Yes. But, as it turned out, not by me.’ Shafeen did not go into detail. I could see it was difficult for him, even now, to cast Henry in the role of hero. ‘But while we were there someone else died. He was called Rollo de Warlencourt. He was the lord of the manor.’
‘He died in the fire, this man?’
‘No, no – from a … riding accident.’ I could hear the hesitation in his voice. I could sense that he wanted to tell the truth, but not the whole truth. ‘He was a … friend of Father’s. They’d been at STAGS together, and they’d spent a weekend at Longcross in the autumn of 1969.’ Shafeen leaned forward where he sat. ‘At the end he thought I was Father. He called me by his name. And he said he wasn’t sorry for that weekend in 1969, for “what they’d done together”. Do you know what he might have meant?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’ Her dark eyes, so like her son’s, took on this glossy, faraway look. ‘All I can tell you is that Aadhish Jadeja is the most honourable man I have ever met. He would never, ever do anything wrong.’
Her face slackened again and I thought she might cry.
I put my hands over hers. ‘He’ll be all right,’ I said, although I was far from sure of it. Rollo hadn’t been.
‘I hope so.’ She attempted a smile. ‘I’ve been praying every day.’
‘At All Saints?’ Shafeen asked.
‘Wait,’ I asked. ‘What’s All Saints?’
‘The English church in Jaipur,’ he replied. ‘It’s where Father always took us. Every Sunday. Religiously, you might say.’
