She caught sight of a man through the fence walking up the pathway to the other half of the bungalow. He was smartly dressed in a suit and carrying an umbrella over his arm; he waved. Tam and Sophie raised a hand in greeting.
‘Who is he?’ Edith demanded.
‘Dr Pir,’ said Jit Singh. ‘He’s the principal of the Islamic College.’
‘They can’t have a coloured man here,’ she protested. ‘They’re practically sharing the same house.’
The agent looked embarrassed. ‘Dr Pir is a very respectable gentleman.’
‘That’s not the point,’ she snapped, ‘he’s not a suitable neighbour for the Telfers. He’ll have to go.’
‘He’s signed a lease, Madam. I’m sorry, but it is all legal and above board.’
Sophie thought Bracknall’s wife was going to explode; she was puce in the face.
‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ Sophie intervened. ‘And it’s too late to change things now. We just want a home to move into by Thursday, don’t we Tam?’
‘Yes,’ Tam said, his look uncomfortable. ‘And I’ve heard Pir is a sound man. The old munshi who is teaching us Urdu at Changa Manga speaks highly of him.’
It suddenly struck Sophie that Tam had known all along whom their neighbour was going to be. With a smile of encouragement, she moved closer and slipped her hand into his. It was clammy.
Edith Bracknall spluttered something about the younger generation and led the way back to a waiting tonga.
Tam turned to the flustered agent. ‘I’ll have the furniture delivered tomorrow. The paintwork seems fine to me and electric fans can be installed later. I just want to be able to carry my bride in here on Thursday and have somewhere to put her.’
‘Yes Sahib,’ Jit Singh’s round face broke into a grin of relief. ‘All will be arranged.’
‘Thank you Mr Singh,’ Sophie said, her cheeks pink at Tam’s elusion to their wedding night.
That night, the Bracknalls threw a dinner party at the Gym Club for the young couple and invited some of their friends from the Indian Civil Service. It was a palatial but forbidding building with large rooms for dining and dancing, reading and smoking. Tam looked handsome in formal evening dress and appeared to have shaken off his earlier liverish feeling.
‘We’re going to meet some of the lads at Stiffles later,’ he murmured to her. ‘They have a good dance floor and I can’t wait to get my arms around you, lassie.’
‘How are we going to shake off Mrs B as our chaperone?’ Sophie smirked.
‘Leave that to me.’
After dinner, Tam announced that he was taking Sophie to meet his Christian Science friends in Golf Road for tea and a reading. He wanted to introduce her before the wedding. He would deliver her back before midnight.
Sophie was spluttering with laughter as they escaped down the steps of the club and flagged down a cycle-rickshaw.
‘Tea and C.S! What if some of them decide to go dancing too?’
Tam snorted with laughter. ‘Well it won’t be to Stiffles. They allow Indians in there.’
The nightclub was lively and the marble floor crowded with dancers in a dazzling array of shimmering evening dresses.
Boz and Rafi were sharing a table with two Scots nurses from the Medical College; both men stood to greet her. Sophie was light-headed from wine at dinner and the excitement of having escaped the Bracknalls.
‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see you both,’ she grinned, ignoring their proffered hands and kissing them lightly on the cheek.
Tam waved away their offers to buy drinks and took Sophie straight onto the dance floor. Pulling her into his arms, they moved around oblivious to the elbows of other dancers, heady with their daring escape.
‘When we’re married,’ Tam declared, ‘we will come dancing every night – Faletti’s or Stiffles – and we’ll dine at Lorang’s and throw dinner parties in our tiny bungalow.’
‘And a junior forester’s pay will stretch to all that, will it?’ Sophie teased.
‘Topped up by a bit of army pay I’m due,’ Tam replied. ‘I’m attached as a reservist to the battery at Dalhousie in the hills, so not only do I get a bit of extra money, but you can escape the hot season down here when I do my annual training.’
‘You’ve got it all worked out,’ Sophie said, impressed.
‘Oh yes,’ Tam was serious, ‘I’ve planned our whole future. And tomorrow I’m going to buy you that wedding ring we should have got in Bombay. Rafi knows a good jeweller in the old quarter; he’s offered to take us.’
‘That’s exciting. I wanted to have a look around the old city today, but Mrs B was horrified at the idea.’
‘I have to go out to oversee some thinning work at Tera tomorrow morning – it’s just a few miles east of here – but I’ll polish off the office work in the early afternoon, then we’ll be free for a late lunch and buying the ring. Sound fine?’
‘Sounds grand,’ Sophie said, kissing him quickly on the lips.
Tam tired quickly. When someone bumped into him, he winced and limped back to the table. Sophie tried to look at his leg, but he brushed her off and told her not to fuss, his good humour evaporating. Shortly afterwards, they said their goodnights, arranging to meet Rafi at the Cecil Hotel the following afternoon, and Tam dropped her back at Mayo Gardens. The Bracknalls were still up, sipping whisky and sodas by an open fire but Sophie feigned sleepiness and went straight to her room. She lay in bed listening to the murmur of their voices and wondered if she and Tam would be as content in each other’s company in twenty years’ time?
***
‘Tam’s no well; he’s laid up in bed at the Cecil with tummy trouble.’
Boz was waiting on the veranda when Sophie and Edith Bracknall returned from delivering cards of introduction to the British fraternity around the cantonment. Her hostess had drawn up a list of suitable people from Sir Edward and Lady Maclagan at Government House down to the Secretary of the annual Horse Show.
‘Oh dear me,’ said Edith, ‘poor boy. He really has had rotten luck since coming out to India, hasn’t he? The climate doesn’t seem to suit him at all.’
‘I must go and see him,’ Sophie said at once.
‘I don’t think that would help at all,’ Edith contradicted. ‘You can hardly go and see him in bed – not before you are husband and wife.’
‘But he’s ill and I want to see him.’
Boz said, ‘Tam says you’re no to worry – he just canna’ go far from the thunderbox just now.’
Edith sniffed. ‘Perhaps the dinner was a bit rich at the Club last night. I’ll send you back with some liver salts, Mr Boswell. Tam must rest up or else he won’t be fit for his wedding day.’
‘But we were to buy the ring this afternoon,’ Sophie said, her concern mixed with disappointment.
‘Tam’s asked me to take you instead,’ said Boz. ‘He’ll settle with the jeweller as soon as he’s on his feet.’
‘Well,’ Edith sucked in her breath, ‘it’s really not convenient for me to come with you this afternoon – I want to talk over the menu for the wedding tea with my cook – there’s so much to arrange.’
‘That’s fine,’ Sophie said quickly, ‘Boz and Rafi will look after me; Mr Bracknall can vouch for them both.’
Edith looked undecided. Boz put on a grave face. ‘I’ll tak’ personal responsibility for Miss Logan. Time is pressing and it would be an awfu’ shame if Tam had no ring to put on her finger the day after tomorrow.’
‘Very well,’ she gave in, ‘but have her back before dark.’
As soon as they reached the Cecil to rendezvous with Rafi, Sophie insisted on going up to see Tam. She found him grey-faced and listless, lying under blankets with the blinds drawn.
‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he sighed, ‘I hate you to see me like this.’
‘Have you been seen by a doctor?’ she asked, putting a hand to his forehead. It felt hot and waxy.
‘I don’t need a doctor,’ he said in irrita
tion. ‘It’s just a stomach upset.’
‘It might be more than that. Do you have a headache too?’
He pushed her hand away. ‘I’ve been neglecting my Science – my body’s out of sorts, that’s all. I just need a bit of positive thought and prayer.’
‘It’s not a sign of weakness to take medicine as well,’ Sophie said in exasperation.
‘It’s a sign of my feeble Faith,’ Tam muttered.
Sophie ran a finger down his cheek, amazed at his stubbornness. ‘If prayer doesn’t get you up on your feet by tomorrow, I’m sending in the doctor. Agreed?’
He gave a weak grunt. ‘Agreed, Nurse Logan.’ She leaned over and kissed his hot forehead. As she retreated to the door, he called out in a croaky voice, ‘Sorry lassie; I promise I’ll make it up to you.’
‘Just get better, that’s all I want.’ She blew him a kiss and left.
***
Rafi helped Sophie into a tonga and instructed the driver in his own language. Boz climbed in the other side and Sophie sat between the two young foresters, her eyes wide with curiosity as they left the wide streets of British Lahore and ventured into the old city. As the streets narrowed around them, the buildings grew taller, their style Moorish but embellished with cupolas and elaborate ironwork. The afternoon light glowed on houses of lemon yellow and salmon pink, their white shuttered windows and doors still shut against the heat. Open stalls were selling garish arrays of sweetmeats, while bubbling vats of fat sizzled with spicy-smelling dumplings.
She plied Rafi with questions: how old were the houses? What was the local speciality? Where did his family live? Could she see inside the mosque? He laughed and said he didn’t know the answers to most of her questions.
‘I know more about the history of Edinburgh than Lahore,’ he admitted with a rueful smile.
‘You must at least know where your family live,’ Sophie challenged.
‘Yes,’ Rafi said, ‘I haven’t forgotten that.’ But he didn’t elaborate. Leaning forward, he said something to the driver and a few moments later they had stopped outside a large emporium. ‘Here we are at Bhagat’s.’
‘It doesn’t look like a jeweller’s,’ Sophie said, gazing at the array of china and linen, water pipes and inlaid tables crammed in the entrance way.
‘Bhagat’s sells everything,’ Rafi assured, ‘but he has an eye for precious stones and his metalworkers are the best in the Punjab.’
Sophie fingered the modest engagement ring that Tam had given her – a single small diamond.
‘Well, we don’t need anything grand,’ she said, ‘just a simple band will do.’
Rafi introduced them to Mr Bhagat, a tall pale-skinned man with sparse grey hair who welcomed them and took them to a comfortable sitting-room where tea was served in delicate green-tinted glasses. Trays of rings were laid out in front of Sophie and she tried them on for size while the men chatted in English about the forthcoming polo matches now that Hodgson’s Horse were to be posted to Lahore. To Sophie’s surprise, the jeweller asked Rafi if he still played.
‘Not since I left the army,’ said Rafi.
‘But your father still keeps a fine stable?’
‘I’m sure he does.’ Rafi pulled out his cigarette case and offered it around. ‘But there’s little call for a thoroughbred down in Changa Manga. Boz and I ride around on bicycles most of the time.’
‘Aye, or a lame grey mare,’ Boz laughed, ‘if we can beg one from the lads at the Remount.’
‘Is that the horse depot where Tam plays tennis?’ Sophie asked.
‘Yes, if you can call a couple of old soldiers, a handful of old nags and a lame dog, a Remount,’ Rafi said through a gauze of smoke.
‘Good,’ Sophie smiled, ‘I want to learn to ride properly.’
‘A lassie who can handle herself on an old motorcycle,’ said Boz, ‘will have no problem with the Remount horses, eh Rafi?’
‘None at all,’ Rafi smiled.
Sophie chose a thin band of rose gold and Tam’s friends bought her an opal necklace as their wedding present to her.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Sophie was touched by the men’s insistence on buying it. ‘But shouldn’t you be buying something for Tam instead?’
‘The black opal suits you to perfection, Miss Logan,’ Mr Bhagat approved.
‘And Tam can admire it on you,’ said Rafi.
Sophie blushed with pleasure. ‘Thank you.’
When they emerged from the shop it was late afternoon and the street was in shadow.
‘Anyone else hungry?’ asked Boz.
‘The smells from these stalls are making me ravenous,’ Sophie said. ‘Let’s buy some and take a picnic to the Shalimar Gardens – I haven’t done any sightseeing yet.’
The men agreed and Rafi guided them to a stall where a toothless old man greeted him warmly and filled a dish with piping hot nuggets of vegetable pakora and meat-filled samosas. From another stall they bought almond biscuits, some lurid orange halva and a canister of tea.
In the Shalimar Gardens, next to a rectangular pond shimmering in golden afternoon light, Sophie pulled her mother’s thin cashmere shawl from her handbag and laid it out for them to sit on.
‘No dribbling hot fat on my only heirloom,’ she warned.
The men took off their topees and the three of them tucked into the food with relish. Sophie noticed people looking askance at their picnic as they passed.
‘They’re worried you’re going native,’ Rafi grunted, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and licking his fingers. His brown skin was almost glowing in the retreating sun. Sophie had an urge to lean forward and dab the oil from his chin – a chin that was already shadowed with the day’s stubble. He caught her look. How had she not noticed that his eyes were not brown but a startling tawny green? Never before had she seen eyes quite like them, framed in dark lashes under thick black eyebrows. She felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach.
He gave a puzzled look. ‘I didn’t mean that you are going native. It was a joke.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Sophie struggled to speak over the quickening pulse in her throat, looking away swiftly.
Boz gave a belch of satisfaction. ‘Sorry Sophie.’ He produced cigarettes. As the men smoked, she heard herself chattering inanely about her day’s shopping with Edith Bracknall, trying to avoid staring at Rafi.
‘Do you think we’ve time for a quick chota peg on the way home,’ Boz suggested, ‘before Mrs B sends out a search party for you?’
‘I know just the place,’ Rafi announced, extinguishing his cigarette butt between finger and thumb, and getting to his feet.
Sophie half hoped he would give her a helping hand, but it was Boz who helped her up. By tonga, he took them back to the edge of the old city and led them through a wrought-iron gate, through a tiny courtyard and into a tall house. Leading them up three flights of stairs – ancient creaking uneven stairs of dark wood with mysterious doors set into the panelling – Sophie’s apprehension grew. She threw a look at Boz but he shrugged and grinned, enjoying the surprise.
They emerged onto a roof terrace and Sophie caught her breath at the view. Clear across the rooftops, stood the huge red stone mosque she had only glimpsed in the distance, glowing like fire in the setting sun. It seemed so close in the clear air that she felt she could reach out and touch one of the towering minarets.
‘The Badshahi Masjid,’ Rafi said, with a proud sweep of his hand. ‘Built by Emperor Aurangzeb in the seventeenth century.’
‘It’s magnificent,’ she gasped, ‘isn’t it, Boz?’
‘Aye,’ he agreed, ‘it’s nearly as bonny as St Giles in Edinburgh.’
Rafi laughed and told them to sit.
‘So this is your family home?’ Sophie asked.
‘No,’ Rafi said, ‘I rent the top floor from a friend – didn’t want to go back to the strictures of living under my parents’ rule – I’ve been independent for too long.’
‘Isn’t that very un-Indian?’
He gave her a sharp look, then the usual relaxed smile returned. ‘Very.’
They settled onto old cane chairs with faded cushions while he disappeared behind a curtain. Moments later he was back with three chipped cups and a bottle of whisky.
Boz whistled. ‘Glen Livet? Ya beauty! Where did you get this?’
‘From bonny Scotland, my dear Boswell,’ Rafi grinned. ‘Been keeping it for a special occasion.’
He poured out three drams, handed them round and proposed a toast. ‘Let’s drink to our poor friend Telfer on his sickbed and to his forthcoming marriage to the beautiful and adventurous Miss Logan.’
‘To Tam and Sophie!’ Boz said and knocked back his drink.
‘Thank you,’ Sophie said, flushing at the compliment and raised her glass to them. ‘And thank you for this,’ she murmured, watching a huge pale moon steal into the deepening sky as the sun blazed orange. ‘I’ll never forget it.’
They fell silent while they sipped their drinks that tasted of Scotland and thought their own thoughts. Sophie was acutely aware of Rafi next to her – within a hand’s reach – and it made her skin tingle. She shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts (it was the sunset and whisky surely?) but she didn’t want the moment to end.
Then the call to prayer came clear through the dusk, the air chilled and Rafi led them back downstairs. Fifteen minutes later – but a world away – Sophie was being deposited back on a leafy cantonment drive and chivvied by Edith Bracknall to hurry up and dress for dinner. ‘Roast beef and ginger sponge pudding,’ she announced, ‘Mr B’s favourite and I knew you’d be hungry having missed afternoon tea.’
Chapter 18
Sophie stood shivering in her flimsy silk wedding dress (paid for by the kind Watsons) at the cathedral door under an umbrella produced by Johnny Watson. It had been pouring all morning and her long white veil that trailed along the ground was soaked and speckled with mud splashes.
‘They’ll be here any minute,’ Johnny encouraged. ‘I saw Tam at tiffin; he was in good spirits.’
She was thankful that Tilly’s level-headed, cheerful older brother was there to steady her nerves. Tears were prickling behind her eyelids at this latest setback; the late arrival of the groom and his best man, Boz. There weren’t many guests in the church: a handful of foresters including Rafi (she didn’t want to think about Rafi) with Scott and McGinty who had travelled down from Rawalpindi, Tam’s immediate boss Martins (a small fussy man with protruding teeth), the Bracknalls with some of their friends from the Gym Club whom Tam had played at tennis, and his Christian Science friends, the Floyds. On the bride’s side there was only Johnny’s buxom horsey wife Helena and the Porters whom Sophie had invited two days ago. She knew they were all watching the clock and wondering at the delay.
THE PLANTER'S BRIDE: A story of intrigue and passion: sequel to THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER (India Tea Series Book 2) Page 18
