‘Tell Amelia to come out. I had our derzi stitch all the suits and dresses for our wedding. And the linen. Saved a fortune.’
Her husband, Tom, murmured something inaudible.
‘Besides,’ Sarah continued, ‘what’s the point of her being in London when she could be here, with you?’
Frank looked over her shoulder into middle distance. ‘Her parents are a bit jumpy, actually. Worried about these protests. They’ve been all over the papers.’
Sarah shrugged. ‘It’ll blow over. Just a few hotheads. Isn’t that right, darling?’
Tom nodded. ‘Lot of nonsense, if you ask me.’
‘One of our servants actually apologised to me the other day, after that train was attacked,’ Sarah went on. ‘Not real Indians, that’s what he said. He was dying of embarrassment.’
Tom said: ‘If you gave them independence, they wouldn’t know what to do with it.’
‘Chaos. That’s what would happen. Absolute chaos.’
‘She’ll be living here anyway, once we’re married. They’re being awfully silly.’ Frank sighed. ‘But they won’t listen.’
The conversation turned to events in Europe and the men fell to debating the new German Chancellor, Mr Hitler, whose party had done so well earlier in the year. Isabel let her eyes drift across the party, idly reading the gestures and expressions. The pungent smell of frying onions and spices wafted across the lawn from the marquee. Servants bustled in and out with laden trays of food.
Sarah leant in to whisper. ‘Who’s that?’ She gestured over Isabel’s shoulder.
A dark-haired man of perhaps thirty looked hastily away as she turned. He shifted his gaze to the man beside him with unnaturally fixed attention. He was tall and rather thin, in need perhaps of a good feed.
‘One of Bertie’s crowd?’
‘Not military, not the type.’ Sarah seemed amused. ‘Well, he seems to know you. He’s been staring at you for the last ten minutes.’
‘I very much doubt that.’
Isabel didn’t look again until Frank announced that they should all head to the marquee for supper. As they moved off, she glanced back. He was indeed watching her. His eyes slid at once to his feet. An attractive face and rather intense brown eyes. She padded across the lawn with Frank at her side. He was probably married anyway, with several children. Whoever he was, his shyness was a welcome change from the usual boisterous crowd.
The chit arrived at the bungalow the following day as Isabel and her mother sat together in the sitting room.
‘Miss Isabel Winthorpe.’ Her mother twisted to look across the room. ‘It’s from someone at The Grand.’
‘Really?’ Isabel frowned and rose to take it. The envelope was luxuriously thick with The Grand Hotel’s crest embossed on the fold. She examined the handwriting. Small, cramped letters.
‘Well, open it, Isabel. Don’t tease.’
She turned away from her mother, pulled open the flap and slid out the paper. It had the same velvety texture and The Grand’s address. The letter was a single paragraph.
Dear Miss Winthorpe,
I can only apologise for writing to you in so impertinent a manner. It was such a surprise, albeit a most pleasant one, to see you again last night that I took the liberty of asking Colonel Cawthorne for your family’s address. I fear you may think me awfully presumptuous but I wondered if you might do me the great honour of lunching with me, here at The Grand, on Thursday at noon? I leave Delhi next week and would dearly value the chance to see you before then, if only as a small token of apology for my regrettable behaviour in the past.
Yours in hope,
Jonathan Whyte
‘What is it, darling?’ Her mother, all attention, rose from her chair. ‘You’re pale as a ghost.’
She lifted the letter from Isabel’s hand before she could resist.
‘How nice! He sounds delightful. A little unorthodox, perhaps, but well-mannered. And The Grand offers such tasty luncheons. I do recommend the fish.’ She softened her tone, trying to gauge the mood. ‘Isabel? Who is he, exactly?’
‘Gwen’s brother.’ She saw it now. She simply hadn’t recognised him at the party, but those brown eyes, the even features … She shook her head. ‘I shan’t go. He was horrid.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘That first summer with the Misses Ellison when you packed me off to stay with Gwen’s family. They’re up in the Dales, miles from anywhere, remember? I never went again.’ She paused, remembering. ‘He must have been about ten.’
Her mother looked relieved. ‘All boys are terrors at that age. And he sounds so contrite, Isabel. He’s clearly embarrassed. You must accept.’
Isabel hesitated. He was about to leave Delhi, so if the luncheon was a disaster she never need see him again. She was curious to know why he was in India and, besides, dining at The Grand was always a treat.
All the way to The Grand, past the crowded broken pavements, the street stalls and roadside hawkers, the beggars, all set against southern Delhi’s ornate Victorian buildings, she thought how absurd it was to feel nervous. The lobby was hushed. Her heels clicked across the marble floor to the main restaurant and her hat bounced in and out of the gilded mirrors along the wall.
The restaurant was quiet, even for a Thursday. She stood for a moment, steadying her breathing, as the maître d’ greeted her. In the centre, an Anglo-Indian in evening dress sat at a baby grand piano and tinkled old-fashioned melodies. In the corner by the door, a mother and daughter sat together, parcels of shopping heaped beside their chairs. Three young women of about her own age chatted in low voices at another table. A group of middle-aged men impinged on the quiet by breaking into sudden laughter.
Her eye was taken by a movement in the far corner near the French windows, which led out to the verandah and the gardens beyond. A chair scraped and a man rose. She recognised him at once from the party. He lifted his hand to wave to her, then hesitated in mid motion, put his palm to his mouth and coughed. The maître d’ led her through the restaurant to join him, seated her on the opposite side of the table and unfolded a starched linen napkin across her lap.
Jonathan leant forward. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’
She turned to the nearby waiter, expecting him to hand her a menu.
‘I took the liberty of ordering for you.’ Jonathan spoke in a low voice. His eyes were intense. ‘The roast lamb with mashed potato.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Roast lamb?’
‘Of course, if you’d prefer something else …’
She shook her head. ‘First you seek out my address, now you know my favourite dish. What next?’
‘Let’s see.’ He nodded to the waiter. ‘Fetch a gin tonic for the lady, would you? No lime, no lemon, no ice.’
‘You have done your homework.’ She drew off her gloves, finger by finger, and draped them over her bag on the chair beside her.
‘And when it comes to dessert, a large slice of The Grand’s signature chocolate cake but without cream.’
‘Very impressive. Is there anything you don’t know about me?’
He drew a cigarette case from his pocket and offered her one, then leant forward to light it for her. The waiter brought their drinks and they sat for a while, sipping gin tonics and smoking. Isabel withdrew the pin from her hat and set it on top of the gloves. She ran her fingers through her hair to loosen it.
‘So tell me, what happened to Gwen? Did she take over the farm? She always said she would.’
He smiled. ‘She married a schoolteacher in Ripon. Did you hear? They’ve got a little girl. Eva.’ His features softened. ‘She always loved the Dales more than I did. My father was awfully disappointed when I set my sights on the IAS.’
The wine waiter presented him with a bottle of wine for approval.
‘You’ll have a glass of claret?’
The crystal glasses flushed red. She drew on her cigarette, felt her shoulders slacken.
‘It’s all your f
ault, you know.’
She looked up quickly. ‘What is?’
‘That I’m here.’ He drew on his cigarette, tipped back his head and blew a stream of smoke into the air above him. ‘Remember that book, the one you studied when you stayed with us? I took it back to school with me after the hols and read it myself. Wanted to work out what had fascinated you, I suppose. Anyway, I was hooked.’
She wasn’t sure how to respond. She drank the last of her gin tonic. ‘You don’t regret it, I hope?’
‘Quite the contrary. I love India. Everything about it. The vibrancy, the craziness, the people. Even the heat.’ A hint of awkwardness. ‘I see now why you missed it so.’
The waiter arrived, set up his tray table with a flourish and began to serve their lunch. Jonathan sat back and watched. He seemed unable to meet her eye.
When the waiter left, Jonathan lifted his wine glass. ‘I should explain why I wanted to invite you to luncheon. To give heartfelt apologies for being such an idiotic schoolboy all those years ago. And to say thank you. For opening my eyes to the Empire’s greatest treasure.’
She lifted her own glass to touch his. Those weeks in the Dales seemed so long ago, from another life. They picked up their cutlery and began to eat.
‘So you’re based in Calcutta?’
‘Port Blair.’ He ate politely, taking small bites. ‘The Andamans.’
‘Isn’t that terribly remote?’
‘It’s halfway to Siam. Absolute paradise. White-sand beaches, clear blue waters, splendid fishing. But untamed. The jungle’s full of savages, some of them completely uncivilised. And lots of convicts, of course. You know we have a fortified prison there? My bearer and cook are both murderers.’
‘The cook’s not a poisoner, I hope?’
He laughed. ‘Certainly not. Strangled his wife. Hard to imagine. He’s a pussycat.’
She took another mouthful of lamb. It was rich and succulent and the gin, chased down by the claret, added to a sudden wave of well-being.
‘Tell me about your life there. I’d love to know.’
He lifted his eyes from his plate. His expression was one of cautious excitement. ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to bore you.’
‘You won’t.’
She settled into her meal and he took control of the conversation. He spoke with increasing confidence and speed as he warmed to his subject, describing in some detail his work as an assistant commissioner and his ambition to clear further sections of jungle and extend agriculture on the island.
Isabel prodded him with questions but mostly she took the opportunity to study him. He had an intelligent face. His eyes shone as he talked. Most young men she knew seemed to think it fashionable to adopt a rather languid, cynical attitude towards India. Jonathan sounded passionate. He was still talking when the waiter discreetly removed their plates and offered dessert menus.
‘I’ve gone on and on, haven’t I?’ Jonathan looked suddenly embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She shook her head, smiled and offered him a cigarette. They sat back in their chairs and started to smoke, sipping the last of the claret. The dining room was almost deserted. Only the businessmen still lingered at their table, chairs pushed back, blurred by a haze of cigar smoke.
‘I love long luncheons. I don’t have them very often.’
‘You will indulge me, won’t you, and let me order you some chocolate cake?’
‘Well, if you insist.’
The blinds on the French windows were lowered to shoulder height, the pink fabric of the top half glowing warmly with low winter sun, which protruded beneath to spread patches of light across the wooden flooring.
‘But only if you tell me how you know my favourite foods?’
‘Actually it was your friend, Mrs Winton.’ He blushed. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Sarah?’
‘I wanted to say hello at the party but I bottled out. I wasn’t sure how you’d react. Besides, that young man glued to your side seemed rather possessive.’
‘Frank?’ She laughed. ‘Heavens, no. Anyway, he’s engaged.’
‘So I discovered. After you left, I finally went over to speak to your friend, Mrs Winton. She was very friendly.’ He paused, leaning forward and watching her closely. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
She shrugged. ‘Why should I?’
It was almost three o’clock by the time they finished coffee. She reached for her hat and gloves and the waiter rushed forward to ease back her chair. Jonathan once again became agitated as they walked, side by side, towards the door and into the echoing lobby. When he spoke, his words tumbled out in a rush, as if rehearsed.
‘Would you do something for me? Unless you think it’s a terrible cheek. I don’t know Delhi, you see. I wonder if you’d do me a colossal favour and come out and about with me this afternoon.’ He hesitated, embarrassed. ‘But you’re busy, of course. I’m awfully sorry. It was—’
She tugged on her gloves, finger by finger. ‘Why not? That sounds fun.’
He smiled, a long, lovely smile that made his eyes shine.
She led him down the hotel’s broad drive to the gate and hailed a tonga there, directing it north towards the old city. As they clopped along, swaying lightly in their seats with the motion of the bony horse, the streets became narrow and dirty. The tonga vied for space alongside legions of overladen carts, stacked high with cauliflowers and bhindi and green pickles. They banged so close that she could smell the sweaty, steamy hides of the donkeys and bullocks that drew them. Thin men, all muscle, cycled through the shifting spaces, some with children or wives perched behind on the metal frame.
At a junction, she tapped the tonga-wallah on the shoulder and directed him in Hindustani. He swung the horse left into a stream of traffic and edged them across the chaos towards the mouth of a lane.
‘You speak better than I do,’ Jonathan said. ‘And I came third in the Urdu examinations.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s mostly street slang.’
‘Who taught you?’
‘I used to play with one of the servants’ boys. It wasn’t allowed, of course.’ She peered out as the tonga squeezed into the neck of the lane and drew to a halt. A mangy dog barked round the horse’s legs. ‘Anyway, brace yourself.’
The mud underfoot was sticky with animal dung and discarded vegetable scraps. The stink was undercut by an intense sweetness, a cloying smell of burnt sugar.
Isabel strode ahead. Boys on bicycles wobbled through the tide of pedestrians, ringing shrill bells. A ragged toddler, naked from the waist down, took a few unsteady steps before losing his balance and crashing to the ground. An older child, her face smeared with mud, rushed to push her hands under his arms and haul him up.
The shop was little more than a stall. A long wooden counter faced the street, covered with dishes of sweetmeats in bright colours. They were piled in elaborate pyramids and a young boy sat on a stool behind the counter, wielding a long switch, which he used to knock flies off the produce even as they settled.
Isabel greeted him with a namaste. The boy slipped from his stool and ran out towards the back, bare feet slapping on the wooden planks. Minutes later, the scrap of sacking across the doorway was swept aside and a man strode out, wiping his hands on a piece of rag. He put his hands together in namaste and bowed to Isabel.
‘Rahul, this is my friend, Mr Whyte.’
He glanced at Jonathan. ‘Namaste, ji.’
‘Hello.’
He was a young man but the belly pushing out the folds of his kurta was already rounded and his hands looked calloused by manual work.
Isabel turned from one man to the other as she spoke. ‘How is Sangeeta-ji? They married – is it three years now, Rahul? I was in London, you see. By the time I heard, I’d missed the wedding. They’ve got a son now. Abhishek.’
‘Very fine, thank you, Isabel Madam. And Mutter-ji also.’
‘His baba, Chaudhary, was our cook. Rahul and I played together all the time, didn’t w
e?’ She beamed. ‘A long time ago now.’
‘So many years, madam.’ Rahul gestured to them to go inside. ‘You are drinking chai?’
Isabel followed him through into a small, rough courtyard, Jonathan trailing behind. Sangeeta, Rahul’s young wife, stopped her sweeping and bowed her head with respect. A slight girl of perhaps fourteen crouched in the far corner. She held a short stick and was drawing shapes in the dirt to amuse Rahul’s baby boy. Her eyes, when they met Isabel’s, were piercing and hostile. She raised her dupatta to shield her face and withdrew into the building beyond.
Sangeeta set down her broom, crossed to add wood to the fire and blew the embers into life. The sickly smell of boiling sugar spilt out from a covered doorway in the far wall. In a thin line of shade, Chaudhary Madam, Rahul’s elderly mother, lay on a battered charpoy. She looked little more than cloth-covered bones. White hair straggled from her long plait.
Isabel picked up a stool and sat by the charpoy. She lifted the crude bamboo fan there and began to stir the air around the old lady’s face.
‘Rahul’s mother was so kind to me.’ She spoke over her shoulder to Jonathan. ‘Sometimes I trooped back with Rahul for dinner. She always welcomed me, gave me food.’ The old woman stirred and Isabel bent to touch her cheek. ‘It was a lark for me, being part of an Indian family. It was only later that I thought how little they had to eat. She probably went hungry because of me and I was too stupid to realise.’
Rahul brought a stool for Jonathan and placed it beside Isabel’s. Sangeeta stirred chai in a blackened pot on the fire and, having served them, picked up her son and swayed him on her hip as the two guests and her husband drank their sweet milky tea from clay cups and picked at a saucer of sweetmeats.
‘We ate a massive luncheon, Rahul. But I can’t resist.’ Isabel bit into one of the silver-topped sweets. ‘Jonathan, do try one of these. Kaju barfi. Delicious. It’s made with nuts, cashew nut. Now Rahul, tell me, how’s business?’
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