The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  Heading for the stairs and taking them in twos, he heard the jocular encouragement from the residents.

  ‘Good luck, darling!’

  ‘Into battle, Lomax,’ called out Fritwell.

  ‘If the delightful Mrs Lomax wants a partner,’ said Ansom with a chortle, ‘then Handsome Ansom is ready and willing.’

  At the end of the corridor, Tom braced himself before entering their two-roomed apartment. He thought it was a charming home with its sloping ceiling and two verandas; one overlooking the internal courtyard and the other the garden and the Saddar Bazaar beyond. Lydia had filled their home with stylish Oriental furnishings that her mother had helped her choose and had hung a semi-erotic painting of dancing nymphs over their new, large and comfortable bed. His own watercolour of the ruins of Hindu temples at Taxila had been consigned behind the wicker sofa, Lydia declaring it too big for either room, and would have to wait for when they moved into their own house. Lydia had been pressing for this to happen ever since her parents had left. She hated living alongside the guests and so near to the bazaar. ‘All bells and smells,’ she complained.

  As Tom walked into the small sitting room he got a heady waft of Lydia’s perfume from the adjoining bedroom.

  ‘Is that you?’ Lydia called.

  ‘Yes, my sweet,’ Tom answered.

  ‘You better hurry and change. We can’t be late. Geraldine says the colonel of that new cavalry regiment is coming and I want you to make a good impression. I don’t like the way some of the army lot cold-shoulder us just because you’re no longer in the Rifles.’

  Tom heard the excitement in her voice. He felt terrible for letting her down. Walking into the bedroom he saw Lydia sitting at her dressing table applying rouge to her cheeks. She was wearing a shimmering red gown that showed off her décolletage. Its lack of modesty would raise eyebrows among the matrons of Rawalpindi. She stood and turned towards him and he was struck anew at her beauty. Since coming to India her figure had filled out and she was even more voluptuous than before.

  ‘You look like a goddess,’ said Tom, smiling.

  ‘And you look and smell like a stable boy,’ she replied, wrinkling her nose. ‘Bijal filled you a bath an hour ago but you’ll just have to have it cold. Chop, chop.’

  ‘Dearest,’ Tom said, ‘you’ll have to go on ahead without me. Charlie’s ill and Myrtle is helping at Rose’s confinement. I’ll come as soon as I can but we’ve new arrivals tonight.’

  Her face puckered in dismay. ‘Oh, Tom! You know how much I’ve been looking forward to this. You simply must come. Charlie can manage – he looked fine to me earlier. Just a bit of a cold.’

  ‘It looks more like a fever to me,’ said Tom, ‘and I don’t want him sneezing all over the guests. Anyway, I’ve sent him home.’

  ‘What is the point of paying these people if they won’t work when you want them to?’ Lydia said in exasperation.

  ‘Darling, that’s not fair—’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s not fair – leaving it to the last minute to tell me we can’t go to the dance!’ She looked on the verge of tears.

  ‘But you can still go,’ Tom insisted.

  ‘I’m not walking in there on my own!’

  ‘You won’t have to,’ said Tom hastily. ‘I’ve sent a message to Dickie Mason. I know he’ll be delighted to escort you.’

  Lydia pouted. ‘That boy lieutenant? He’s hardly out of school trousers. I want Captain Lomax to be at my side. I want my husband!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom, beginning to strip off his riding clothes. ‘But the needs of the hotel must come first. I’m trying to make a go of this. I admit it’s been harder than I thought it would be – more hands on – but once things are more prosperous, we’ll have heaps of time for dances and parties.’

  Lydia flashed him an accusing look. ‘It will never be prosperous if you keep the sort of second-rate clientele we’ve inherited. They’re a bunch of no-hopers. Nobody who’s anybody wants to stay here – only box-wallahs and Eurasians.’

  Tom paused, half-undressed, and stared at her in astonishment. She’d made teasing comments about their permanent guests before but never spoken of them with such disdain. He felt offended on their behalf.

  ‘Darling, don’t speak about our friends like that,’ he chided.

  ‘They’re not our friends – they’re spongers who live here at half the going rate and still never pay up on time.’

  ‘Well, it’s better than having the rooms standing empty,’ Tom said defensively. ‘Besides, they’re good people. Your parents liked them – Pa got on splendidly with Ansom and Fritwell.’

  ‘Daddy would make friends with the Kaiser given half a chance,’ she said dismissively. ‘But Mummy saw right through that so-called baroness. You can tell how she puts on that false Austrian accent. Geraldine says she’s the laughing stock of the Club and it’s obvious she’s as common as they come.’

  Tom was irritated. ‘And what has Geraldine Hopkirk done in life apart from marry a brewer?’ he snapped.

  Lydia’s mouth tightened. ‘Now who’s being a snob?’

  Tom’s chest was tight with anger but he curbed his temper.

  ‘Lydia,’ he appealed to her. ‘Let’s not argue. I’m sorry I can’t take you to the brewery dance but I want you to still go and have a good time.’

  She relented quickly. ‘I suppose I will just have to make the best of it with that Mason boy in tow. Esmie claims he has a good sense of humour at least.’

  ‘He certainly does,’ Tom agreed.

  He was unsettled by the sudden reference to Esmie. Lydia’s friend had resisted all attempts to be lured to Rawalpindi before Christmas. Word had it that she and Harold had gone into the mountains to dispense medicines and care. He was in awe of Esmie’s courage – Lydia would never endanger her life for Indians – yet he felt guilty for thinking of her and comparing her more favourably to his own wife. He shouldn’t have to keep reminding himself that he had chosen the beautiful Lydia because he loved her.

  Bare-chested, he crossed the room and stood next to Lydia. Tilting her chin, he smiled. ‘And when you get back, I’ll make it up to you.’

  He bent and kissed her lips. For a moment, he felt her respond and then she was pushing him away.

  ‘You stink of horse,’ she complained. ‘Go and bathe.’

  It was late and most of the residents had long retired to bed when Tom went out to the courtyard to smoke a cigarette. The stars were hidden in a blanket of wood smoke that spread from the nearby Saddar Bazaar. He listened to the night sounds; a watchman calling out, a dog barking and the tinkle of tonga bells. A sense of calm washed through him. He had coped with all the new arrivals, chatted to the guests at dinner and played cards with the regulars by the fire in the sitting room. Mr Hoffman, the former policeman who years before had lost an eye from a stray firecracker, had played waltzes on his violin and made the baroness weep with nostalgia.

  Tom knew he had enjoyed the evening far more than if he had been at the brewery dance – but knew he could never admit such a thing to Lydia. Thinking of his beautiful wife, he felt a quickening of excitement. Thankfully, young Mason had turned up promptly to escort her to the dance and Lydia had left in better humour, planting a kiss on Tom’s cheek and whispering suggestively in his ear, ‘I’ll see you upstairs later.’

  But he would have to rein in his impatience; these brewery dos could go on until the early hours. The old Tom – the pre-war officer who had relished riotous dinners and dances – would have gone along even at this late hour. But he had lost the appetite for largescale socialising after Mary had died. Back home in Scotland he had only made the effort to attend county balls for Lydia’s sake. He would just be tempted to drink too much and make a fool of himself. Stubbing out his cigarette, Tom glanced towards the Dubois’ bungalow. A light was still on in the parlour. He would go and see how Charlie was.

  As he mounted the steps of their veranda, he caught a glimpse through the window and, t
o his surprise, saw that Myrtle was back from her sister’s and all the family were still up. Charlie was sitting in a chair by the fire with a rug tucked round his knees and Jimmy sprawled at his feet. Myrtle was on the sofa with Stella curled under her arm and the girl’s head on her lap. He felt a sudden tug of envy at the domesticated sight. This is what he wanted for him and Lydia one day; a happy family and a welcoming home.

  Perhaps he should give in to Lydia’s desire for a house in the civil cantonment. It would be less convenient for work but she could create the comfortable home for them that she desired away from the prying eyes of the residents. Tom sighed. He couldn’t really afford it. The hotel was running at a loss and he had no other income. Lydia said her father would pay but Tom was too proud to go cap in hand to his father-in-law. Lydia still received an allowance from her parents but Tom insisted that she spent that on herself. If they moved into a civil bungalow they would have to start entertaining Lydia’s new-found friends and that would put extra strain on their tight budget. Tom would have to resist her demands until after the expensive Christmas season was over.

  A servant let Tom in. Jimmy sprang up as Tom entered the parlour, his plump face beaming. Stella stirred and sat up, yawning.

  ‘I hope nothing’s wrong, Mr Lomax?’ Myrtle asked, rising.

  ‘Please don’t get up,’ said Tom hastily. ‘Nothing’s wrong. I just came to see how Charlie is.’

  ‘I’m fit as a fiddle,’ said Charlie, wiping his streaming nose. ‘Please sit, sir.’ He pointed to the chair beside him.

  ‘My husband’s not fit at all,’ said Myrtle in her soft sing-song voice. ‘But he refused to go to bed until I got back.’

  Charlie wagged a finger at her and blew his nose. ‘I’m fine. Don’t fuss.’ He turned to Tom. ‘Jimmy will pour you a nightcap. I’m partaking of a hot toddy to quench my cold. Johnny Walker. Kills germs and warms the blood. Please, sir, do sit.’

  Tom did so. He’d hardly touched a drop of alcohol since the Templetons had left but now felt the familiar craving. ‘I won’t stay long but a dram would be nice.’ To Myrtle he asked, ‘How is your sister?’

  Myrtle’s round face lit up. With her wavy dark hair and doe-eyed beauty she reminded Tom of a film star.

  ‘She is tired but well, thank you,’ she replied.

  Stella piped up. ‘And I’ve got a new cousin – a baby boy. Mummy says I can go and visit him tomorrow after school.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ Tom cried.

  Jimmy, handing over a generous tumbler of whisky to Tom, grinned and said, ‘Finally a boy cousin who I can teach to play cricket.’

  ‘That is why we are celebrating so late,’ said Charlie, stifling a sneeze. ‘There is a new son and heir for the Dixon family.’

  ‘Does baby Dixon have a name yet?’ Tom asked.

  Myrtle smiled. ‘Sigmund Francis.’

  Tom raised his glass. ‘To Sigmund Francis Dixon; good health, happiness and a long life!’

  They echoed his words, though only he and Charlie drank a toast.

  Myrtle put an affectionate hand on Stella’s head and told her to go to bed. Stella resisted.

  ‘Do as your mother says,’ Charlie ordered. ‘You have school in a few hours, young lady. You must be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

  Stella went reluctantly, still chattering about her new cousin. A yawning Jimmy followed. When they had gone, Tom said, ‘Your children are a credit to you. They are such a help in the hotel. But I don’t ever want it to interfere with their studies.’

  Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘If Jimmy put the same effort into his lessons as he does the cricket team, he would be top-class pupil.’

  Tom laughed. ‘I was a lot like that at his age.’

  ‘Then, sir,’ said Charlie, ‘he will turn out to be a good penny in the end.’

  They drank to Jimmy and his future. Then they drank to Stella and her father’s hope that she would find a rich and kind husband. At this point, Myrtle got up. ‘Stella has a good brain,’ she said. ‘Perhaps she will become a nurse or even a doctor.’

  She winked and Charlie laughed as if she had made a huge joke. Tom thought suddenly of Esmie. Stella was already showing that mix of a sharp, practical mind and a caring attitude that made Esmie such a good nurse. Plus, a large dose of courage. Nursing was one of the few professions into which an Anglo-Indian like Stella could enter and thrive. Yet she was still so young and might have quite different ideas from her parents as to what she would be when she grew up.

  Myrtle hovered by her husband but he told her to go to bed and he would follow shortly. Myrtle said goodnight to Tom with a look that implored him not to keep her husband up too late.

  Tom tried to leave after one dram but Charlie was in full flow about the ruins at Taxila – his favourite topic – and poured them both another whisky. Tom felt guilty at keeping him up but noticed how Charlie’s sneezing appeared to have been banished by the liquor. It was late and the bottle was nearly empty by the time Tom left and walked unsteadily towards the hotel. The chowkidar let him in. He steeled himself for a telling-off from Lydia for not being there on her return but he found their apartment empty. Disappointment gripped him. He fumbled out of his clothes and fell into bed.

  The next thing he remembered was being woken by Lydia climbing in beside him. Groggily he was aware of her hair falling onto his face.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ she murmured, running a hand over his chest.

  ‘So have you,’ Tom said, smelling wine on her breath. ‘Good party?’

  ‘Umm, very,’ she said with a slight giggle. ‘I missed you though.’

  She traced her fingers down his naked torso and onto his thigh. ‘Ooh, naughty boy isn’t wearing any pyjamas.’

  Tom felt his ardour stirring. ‘Couldn’t be bothered.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lydia, beginning to kiss her way down his body.

  He shifted onto his elbows, excited by her foreplay. They hadn’t had sex for nearly two weeks and despite being half-comatose with whisky, he was suddenly aroused.

  Lydia pushed him back and, swinging her leg over him, climbed on top. Tom let out a groan of anticipation. This was going to be like their honeymoon all over again. He gave into her caressing. Within minutes she had satisfied herself and pulled away just before he climaxed.

  She sank back, panting. ‘Don’t want any little Lomaxes yet, do we?’ she said with a drunken giggle.

  Tom lay there, half sated and half frustrated. He wanted to take her in his arms and do it all again, except slowly, tenderly. He wanted them to lie together and create a new life. Suddenly, his yearning for a child almost choked him. His head spun. It was just the drink confusing and jumbling up his emotions – the news of Sigmund Francis’s arrival and the celebrations at the warm-hearted Duboises’. Lydia was right that they should have some fun before embarking on a family. He put out a hand to stroke her breast but she was already lying on her front and snoring gently.

  Chapter 18

  Kanki-Khel

  Esmie and Harold were driven north-east out of the Taha valley in a police truck, taking an armed Malik with them as orderly and extra protection. Crammed alongside them were all their medicines, clothes, bedding and fuel supply, as well as four policemen and a driver. All day Esmie perched tensely on the uncomfortable slatted seat, her stomach in knots, and tried to peer beyond the flapping canvas. The truck bumped and rolled along dusty tracks and then began a slow ascent, twisting around narrow corners hewn out of grey rock.

  Somehow Harold managed to read as the motor vehicle bucked, shuddered and belched smoke. Esmie tried her best to keep down her breakfast.

  After three hours they stopped briefly for tiffin by a makeshift bridge of roughly hewn timber. Stretching her legs, Esmie squinted in the harsh sunlight at the barren slopes and a scattering of goats, and marvelled that the nimble animals found anything to eat. A narrow river chuckled under the bridge. She’d never seen such emerald-green water. From nowhere, a turbaned boy
appeared with a large watermelon and bartered with one of the policemen.

  They shared it out but the officer in charge, Sergeant Azim Baz, a burly Pathan with a magnificent full beard and moustache, didn’t want to linger and they were soon on their way again. Harold put his book away, perhaps aware of Esmie’s nerves, and began to chat.

  ‘We’re entering the territory of the Gurbuz Waziris,’ he told her.

  ‘That’s Karo’s tribe, isn’t it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Harold said. ‘The Gurbuz live mainly around Kanki-Khel.’

  ‘Was it wrong of me not to persuade her to come with us?’ Esmie questioned. ‘We might have been able to reunite her with her family.’

  ‘They might not take her back,’ said Harold. ‘She’s brought shame on them with her adultery.’

  ‘But she was wrongly accused!’ Esmie protested.

  ‘I’m sure you are right,’ said Harold. ‘But such things can spark feuds between tribes that last for generations. Her father and brothers might wish to keep quiet. If Karo returns then they might be forced to take revenge.’

  ‘So she might never be able to go back to her family?’ Esmie asked.

  Harold sighed. ‘I fear not.’

  ‘And meanwhile her hateful husband gets away with his savage attack,’ said Esmie, full of indignation.

  Harold put a hand on her arm. ‘Dearest, it’s best if you don’t show your disapproval of her husband’s people. The Otmanzai may well come to the clinic and you must treat them like the others. Most of them are good and brave and just want the best for their families. There are bad apples wherever you go.’

  Esmie was chastened. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. You know I’ll do my job as well as I can. I’ve just grown so fond of Karo and Gabina that it’s hard not to be protective of them.’

  ‘I know,’ Harold said with a tender look. ‘That’s why you are such a gifted nurse – because you care so deeply.’

  After that they fell silent but Esmie leaned against her husband and dozed, drawing strength from his solid presence beside her.