The once congested road began to clear around them, turning into a wide avenue, leaving behind the burgeoning throng of street life, the car windows now looking out on to the open parkland that surrounded a grand white hotel built in the old colonial style.
“Here we are,” Lucien said. “They have a jolly decent bar and rather nice gardens. With any luck the sun will be out soon. Looks quite promising. What do you think?” He peered out of the window, skyward.
• • •
It was usually only on a Sunday that Dr. Schofield might partake of a little whisky before lunch, sitting at his desk, fiddling with bits of instruments that he was sure he could fix, if only he could work out how. He had trouble getting to grips with the mechanics of things. It was not that he wasn’t interested. He was. He had always been fascinated by how things worked, but the science of it eluded him. Still, he stuck at it, particularly on a Sunday morning, while delicious spicy aromas wafted in from the kitchen, Salil busy with his pans while Mrs. Nayar chattered away to no one in particular and her husband slept in a chair on the back porch, pretending to keep watch. There were even times when he thought the pieces were all about to fall into place nicely, but then he would lose hold of his train of thought and put them down again with a sigh of defeat. He held up his glass and admired the pale straw-colored single malt.
“It’s a Speyhawk,” Lucien said. “I think you’ll like it. Cigarette?”
Dr. Schofield thought about it for a while. “Yes. Why not?” He put one to his lips and accepted Lucien’s light, then relaxed into his deep leather chair. “Single malt and cigarettes at lunchtime. I don’t think a man could ask for much more, do you?”
“Don’t get the wrong idea.” Lucien smiled. “This is a far cry from my usual daily routine. But yes, I could get used to it very easily.”
“How are you enjoying India?”
“Delhi’s an excellent posting,” Lucien said. “Had my eye on it for a while. I would have tried for it sooner, but there were…” He stalled briefly. “The timing wasn’t right.”
“Ah,” Dr. Schofield said, taking a sip of his whisky, savoring it, nodding quietly. “A man in need of a wife, eh?”
“Well.” Lucien let out a small laugh. “Not that I planned it like that at all. But as luck would have it…”
“You just happened to fall in love with a girl who knows her way around the place and speaks a bit of the lingo. Are you learning?”
“Not specifically.” Lucien opened his menu and glanced over it casually. “Picking up a few phrases as I go along, but nobody really needs it these days. Everybody speaks English. Everybody we need to deal with anyway.”
“How long are you planning on staying?”
“The full term, if we can.” Lucien scanned the descriptions of the lunch dishes perfunctorily. “Four years, although those kinds of decisions are pretty much out of one’s hands if the powers that be decide to move one elsewhere.”
“Has Sophie settled in all right?”
“Yes, I think so. The DWs are a pretty good bunch. Always busy with something. She’ll soon find her feet.” He took a puff of his cigarette. Maybe if Sophie would just learn to relax, she might stop making such hard work of it. She was uptight, and he didn’t know what was wrong with her. Of course it was all a big change, but what else had she expected? His was a very serious career, requiring a great deal of his time, and she had known that from the outset. If she had wanted the kind of husband who hung around the house smoking a pipe and wearing slippers, then she had married the wrong man. No doubt she was broody, he thought, although he wished she would be less obvious about it. Her availability dampened him, her air of hopefulness. It was unexciting. Sometimes he could almost hear her thinking: maybe this time…
Lucien closed his menu with a decisive clap. “I think I’ll chance the roast beef.”
“Good idea,” Dr. Schofield said, his menu unopened. Lucien relayed their order to the waiter and relaxed into his chair. Dr. Schofield looked at him thoughtfully. “They do say that the first year of marriage is the hardest. Getting used to each other and all that. You mustn’t think me prying. I’m very glad that Sophie has found a good man to settle down with. She’s my only child, you know, which makes me overly protective, I suppose, although heaven knows she’s grown up enough to make up her own mind and take care of herself. I was rather hoping that…” He cut himself short.
“What?”
“That she would meet a good solid sort.” He smiled briefly. “I don’t suppose I might trouble you for another cigarette?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.” Lucien offered his lighter. “I must say,” Dr. Schofield sat back, puffing, “it’s rather nice to have some male company. It had quite slipped my mind that I might actually have a son-in-law one day. I hope we shall become good friends.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Lucien motioned to the waiter with his empty glass. “How about another?”
“Why not?” Dr. Schofield said. “Can’t fly on one wing.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll walk it off after lunch.”
“Walking? Now there’s an offer, although I hear you’re something of a swimmer.”
“Yes. When the mood takes me.”
“I don’t suppose you’d mind if I joined you? It’s been a long time since I’ve had a pool at my disposal. I could do with loosening up the old limbs a bit.”
“Good Lord, no,” Lucien said. “It’s much too cold to swim in this weather.”
• • •
Ros Appleton tapped her teaspoon against her saucer and called her drawing room to order, every seat occupied, the chatter high-pitched and a little unruly. Taking position before the fireplace, she held before her the sheet of paper detailing the itinerary everyone had been speculating upon. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? Lady Macmillan will be visiting the new Cheshire Home for Incurables. And before anyone says anything,” she raised a hand against the looks of horror, “the place will be cleared of anyone who’s even remotely contagious, and Lady Macmillan will be kept at a safe distance from unfortunates.”
“And who will be escorting her?”
“Lady Macmillan will have her own staff with her.”
“Surely we will all have an opportunity to meet her?”
“Well, of course the more senior of us will, but it’s going to be a very brief visit.”
“So we won’t be hosting a special luncheon or tea in her honor?”
“Not this time.”
“Oh, that is disappointing.”
“This isn’t some kind of Kensington tea party, Tessa.” Ros glared at her. “If you want to put on a grand display to impress your friends, then I suggest you invite Cary Grant to supper and call all the newspapers.” Sophie bit the smile forming on her lips. “We are naturally all very excited, and I am sure that everyone can be fitted in somewhere.”
Sophie stole a glance at her wristwatch, the hands nearing two o’clock. She wondered if they had eaten lunch yet, and whether they were getting on well. Lucien had seemed quite put out when she had told him of the invitation she had extended to her father, with it being their first Christmas together and all. It was almost as though he was deliberately trying to avoid meeting her father altogether, and it had led to another one of those awkward spells when she had tried to mask her upset while he huffed and puffed before announcing he was going out to work off his tension in the pool. Her father had warned her of this, the opening movement of any marriage being a trial of fire in the ways of forging a life with another human being. She had left it late, he had told her, which would make it all the more difficult, as she had no doubt become a little set in her ways. Men preferred to be at the center of things, to believe that they are the ones wearing the trousers, as it were. He had said so with a pleasant smile, and had lit a cigarette as Mrs. Nayar cleared the remnants of their supp
er away after pressing upon them another plate of Salil’s sweets.
“Are you all right?” Tessa nudged her lightly.
“Yes,” Sophie said, returning her attention to Ros Appleton and her interminable list.
• • •
“That was some dinner,” Dr. Schofield said, dropping himself into an armchair with a sigh of exhaustion. “I shan’t need to eat for a week. Tony Hinchbrook is quite a character, isn’t he? Not many of his sort left these days. A colonial old-timer if ever I saw one. Charming wife, mind. Shame she had to duck out like that, although I expect I would have done the same in her shoes.”
“He’s an absolute beast when he’s drunk.” Sophie threw her shawl aside. “It won’t be the first time she’s stormed off and locked him out. She’s probably hoping he’ll pass out on their doorstep. He won’t remember a thing about it when he wakes up in the morning. Never does, apparently. Why some people have to get so utterly plastered every time they step out of the house is completely beyond me.”
“Dear, oh dear. I pity the man’s poor liver.”
“Care for a nightcap?” Lucien went to the tantalus on the sideboard.
“I’m going up.” Sophie placed a weary kiss on her father’s head.
“Good night, darling,” Lucien said. “I won’t be long.”
“Not for me.” Dr. Schofield waved a polite refusal. “I think I’ll turn in for the night as well. Oh,” he placed a hand on his chest, “I don’t suppose you have any indigestion salts handy? That rich supper is playing havoc with my constitution.”
“There should be some in the bathroom cabinet. Would you like me to fetch them for you?”
“No.” Dr. Schofield stifled a small belch. “I’m sure I can find them.” He stood up. “Would you mind if I stepped out for a few minutes?”
“Not at all.” Lucien poured himself a drink.
“I think I might catch a few breaths of fresh air and stretch my legs. Just for a moment or two. See if I can shift this stitch.”
“By all means. Take your time, but don’t leave the compound.”
• • •
Dr. Schofield stood out on the porch and lit a cigarette before pulling his collar up against the chill and descending the few steps to the pathway. His gullet was burning. He should have been more careful, or steered away from the champagne, which clearly wasn’t as good as its label purported. Damned stuff. Enjoyable enough at the time, but a wicked mistress when it came to paying the bill for her company. He passed through the gate and on to the road, strolling a few paces, enjoying his cigarette. There was a light on in the guardhouse. He wandered toward it and looked through the sliding window, but there was no one home, the hut empty. A few yards ahead, a thin shaft of brightness fell from a flashlight. The guard walked toward him.
“Sahib?” Veneet quickened his pace. “Are you needing something?”
“Sorry,” Dr. Schofield said, feeling suddenly awkward at having been caught poking his nose into the guardhouse. “I was just stretching my legs for a while.”
“It’s cold tonight,” Veneet said.
“Yes, it is rather.” Dr. Schofield looked around uncertainly.
“Everything is well, sahib. We are here all night when everyone is sleeping.”
“Lucky for us.”
“Did you have an enjoyable party this evening, sahib?”
“Yes. Yes, we did.”
“It is a very good Christian festival, along with your Easter. A very good festival.”
“Yes. Well. We like it.”
“But I think it would be better if you had more fireworks, sahib.” Veneet nodded to himself in firm agreement. “All festivals are much better with fireworks, but I think perhaps you are not having sufficient fireworks in United Kingdom in matters of the Christmas and the so forth.”
“No.” Dr. Schofield nodded politely. “I think you are probably right about that.”
“You are smoking an American cigarette?”
“Er,” Dr. Schofield looked down at his hand, “American? I’m not sure. Player’s. Are they American?”
“Player’s cigarettes very fine. I like Player’s cigarettes.” Veneet hovered expectantly.
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” George took the packet from his pocket. “Would you care to…” Veneet helped himself to three and put them in his pocket.
“You want some chai?” Veneet gestured toward the open doorway of the guardhouse, a pot stewing on the stove. Dr. Schofield thought about it for a moment.
“Yes. Why not?” He stepped inside. “I’m not disturbing you from your work, am I?”
“No, sahib. We are taking turns walking up and down and seeing that everything is fine and there is no trouble or undesirable persons hanging around.”
Veneet took two clay cups from the table and poured some chai into each one. Dr. Schofield hesitated for a moment, seeing that the cup had been used before and not washed. Ah well, he thought. When in Rome. He sipped at it, hot, sweet, and milky, cinnamon tanging on his tongue.
“You are staying at number four?”
“Yes. My daughter lives there.”
“You are father of Mrs. Grainger?”
“Yes.”
“That is very good.” Veneet drank some of his tea and felt pleased with himself. Perhaps they were not all so bad, these Britishers. This one at least seemed to know that he was no better than him and had given him American cigarettes. The ones in the houses were a different matter. It wasn’t that they looked down their noses. They didn’t look at all, passing the gatehouse day in, day out without so much as a good morning or a good evening or a thank you for being outside all night freezing your balls off. He would like to live in a house like that and to come home drunk from parties at two o’clock in the morning and not care about who kept it clean or made it safe. And if he did have a house like that and came home in the middle of the night drunk, he too might go for a little walk and smoke an American cigarette and have a little chat with the chowkidar, just to show that he was not snobbish. He might even give him a tip, a little something to show his appreciation for the fellow freezing his balls off. Perhaps this man was going to give him a tip; after all, it was his Christian festival, and everybody knew that the English wallahs gave tips at Christmas festival. “Are you enjoying your chai, sahib?”
“Very good,” said Dr. Schofield, finishing, careful not to drain the dregs that had loosened whatever it was that had stuck to the bottom of the cup. Footsteps approached the hut. Dr. Schofield put the cup on the table. “Well, I shall wish you good night and leave you to your post.”
Veneet clicked his heels together and nodded, standing straight, his eyes following the hands that failed to offer him a tip as Dr. Schofield walked out of the door.
Dr. Schofield collided with the man before he had even seen him, feeling himself knocked sideways as solidly as if he had marched into a tree. Strong arms steadied him at the shoulder.
“Sahib!” Jagaan stepped back to check the man over. Thank the gods he hadn’t been walking any faster; otherwise he might have knocked him clean over.
“I’m so sorry.” Dr. Schofield fumbled around, righting his spectacles. “My fault entirely. I didn’t even think to look where I was going.”
“You are fine, sahib?” The moment the man lifted his face, Jagaan felt the wind ripped from his chest. He turned quickly away, his voice thick as he said to Veneet, “Please escort the sahib to his door and make sure that he is all right.”
Veneet looked at him indignantly. “Me? Why don’t you…” but Jagaan had already disappeared into the darkness. Veneet tutted to himself, then readied a smile for Dr. Schofield. If he took him home, he would definitely and certainly be bound to get a tip. “Come, sahib. If you feel unsteady along the way, take my arm. In fact, take my arm anyway, then we can be doubly sure.”
“Really, I’m q
uite all right,” Dr. Schofield said, realizing that his heartburn seemed to have gone off miraculously, wondering if it might be something to do with the tea he had just had. Ginger, perhaps. It had tasted like it had ginger root in it, and something else, something that was nagging at the back of his mind, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, like a distant memory. A few yards further, Dr. Schofield slowed. A fractured image came into his mind’s eye, a face he had once known, but he couldn’t think from where. He stopped and turned around abruptly, looking back toward the guardhouse, a faint glimmer of recollection tugging at him deep down somewhere.
“Sahib? You are all right?”
“Yes,” Dr. Schofield said with a frown. “That man at the gatehouse, the other guard…”
“Yes, sahib. He will be in very big trouble for banging into you like that. I will see to it that he is given a talking-to. In fact,” Veneet puffed himself up, “I will speak to him myself, as his superior.”
“No. Don’t do that. It really wasn’t his fault. I just thought for a moment…” He brought his hand to his chin, unable to piece together whatever it was that had flashed through his thoughts for a second. That guard he had glimpsed for a fleeting instant. Something about that face. Those eyes… Unable to place it, he frowned to himself, shrugged it off, and continued back to the house.
25
Dr. Schofield came to the breakfast table suited in his traveling clothes, a comfortable ensemble of linens that had softened over the years and a cotton shirt of a similar ochre hue, open at the collar, with a red kerchief tied at his neck. Sophie looked at him for a moment, as though seeing him differently, before realizing.
“What happened to your mustache?”
“Better?” He smiled self-consciously, his hand coming to his denuded face. “John offered to shave me this morning, so I thought I’d have it off. I’d forgotten what I looked like without it.”
“I rather liked it.” Sophie, entirely wrong-footed at the sight of him, poured him a coffee as he sat down. She glanced at him again. It was as though the clock had been turned back to a different time and a different breakfast table, where nobody spoke and you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.
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