Dishonored (35 page)

“I wanted today to be perfect,” he said. “Relaxed, easy, no decisions to be made.”

Indi leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You are sweet,” she said. He caught the back of her head and held
her face close to his but she looked away, lowering her eyes and pulling back. He released her. “OK, have it your way.” Smiling,
he took another bite of the apple.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

He shrugged, still grinning. “Why should I? It’s the way you are; it doesn’t bother me.” He looked at his apple, deciding
which bit to try next. “It frustrates me, yes, but it doesn’t upset me.” He bit. It didn’t upset him in the slightest; he
was in it for the money, nothing else. Sleeping with her would have been nice, a perk of the job, but he wasn’t going to push
it. He couldn’t afford to take that sort of risk.

“So when are you off?” she asked.

“At the end of the month.” He glanced up quickly to check she wasn’t too shocked. She was thinking, her forehead creased in
the odd frown she had when concentrating, the corner of her lip bitten. He flicked her arm. “A penny for them?”

“They’re worth more than a penny, Jimmy!” She knelt forward, poured herself some more champagne, then stood and walked away
from him, some way down the hillside. She sat on the grass and looked at the view. She had no idea what to do.

In the past two weeks Indi had seen a great deal of Jimmy Stone. She’d had nothing else to do, and he was persistent, constantly
arranging things for her, fun things, extravagant things, jaunts and trips that men her own age would never have thought of.
She liked him, he was good fun, easygoing. He was completely different from anyone she had ever known before. And now he had
asked her to go to India with him, all expenses paid, no ties, just for the company, just for the crack. He was leaving in
a couple of weeks and she hadn’t told John, she hadn’t said yes and she hadn’t said no. She couldn’t make up her mind and
she didn’t want to make a mistake either way.

Sipping her champagne, she heard Jimmy come up behind her. He sat down and reached for her hand.

“I see a major trip abroad coming up,” he said, looking down at her palm, “with a very good-looking, charming young man.”

Indi smiled and continued to stare at the view. “It is an offer you can’t refuse,” he went on. “The chance of a lifetime!”

Indi gently pulled her hand away. “Don’t, Jimmy!” she said. “I’m trying to think.”

He shrugged and sat in silence next to her for a few moments. Then he said, “I don’t see what the problem is, Indi, I honestly
don’t.” She turned toward him. “All I’m asking is for you to come to India with me for a while, for as long as you like. I’ll
book an open ticket, you can come home when you want to, stay as long as you want to. It’ll be fun, Indi, really good fun!
I really like you, I adore being around you, it would make working there so much more enjoyable if you were with me!” He took
her hand again. “What’s the problem with that, eh? I couldn’t make it any easier now, could I?”

Indi smiled. “No, no you couldn’t,” she said. “I do realize that, it’s just…” She sighed heavily. “Oh I don’t know.”
She shrugged and pulled a face. She did know, she knew exactly what was holding her back but she didn’t want to discuss it.
Her grandfather was a subject she found impossible to talk about.

“So you’ll come then?”

“Maybe…” she looked back at the view, “maybe not.”

John hated India; he had always made it quite clear that he never wanted Indi to go there, or have anything to do with the
country. She presumed it was losing Jane there that had turned him or maybe there was something else? Whatever it was, she
knew he would take a proposed trip to India very badly. Very badly indeed.

Jimmy stood up and held out his hands. He knew not to push things. He had to work slowly, thoroughly; he didn’t want to bully
her into making the wrong decision. Indi took them and he pulled her upright.

“Race you down the hill?” he said.

“Yes, all right… Hey!” He sprinted off and she set off after him, her bare feet skimming over the grass and the fine
cotton of her skirt billowing out behind her as she ran.

The picnic was followed by a long walk across the Downs, then collecting up the rubbish and driving in Jimmy’s car to a pub
on the edge of the River Arun. They sat out by the water as the day finally faded and watched the twilight, cool and especially
long, as it gracefully eased the day into night and brought the shadows to life.

Jimmy drove Indi home. She asked him in; but he refused; he had a meeting in London early in the morning and had to be getting
back. She climbed out of the car and quietly closed the door, holding up her hand to wave and stepping out of the glare of
the headlights. She watched him disappear off down the drive, then she put her key in the door and went into the house. The
lights were on in the sitting-room.

“Hello, Gramps.”

“Hello.” John put the paper down. “Did you have a nice day, Indi?”

“Yes, a picnic up on the Downs, then a drink at the Mucky Duck at Roundal, by the river.”

“Lovely.” He looked at her face, flushed from the sun, the honey color turning a darker brown, the color of sandal-wood, and
she smiled at him, a warm, familiar smile, honest and clear, like Jane’s had always been. “You see rather a lot of this Jimmy
Stone, don’t you?” he said as Indi came into the room. “He’s obviously very nice.”

“Hmmmm.” Indi glanced down at the headlines of the paper John had just put down.

“It’s not serious is it?”

Indi suddenly looked up. “No! Of course not!” She blushed and John laughed, reaching out for her hand.

“You’ll have to learn to stop blushing like that, Indi,” he said. “None of your patients will take you seriously if you go
crimson every time you’re embarrassed.”

Indi smiled and sat down on a footstool, hugging her knees. She waited for John to pick up the paper again, then she said,
“Jimmy wants me to go to India with him, Gramps, in a couple of weeks’ time.”

John held the paper steady but his body flinched. “Does he now?” He kept his face hidden for a few moments longer, making
sure he was composed when he looked at her. He lowered the paper. “And what did you tell him?”

“I haven’t told him anything yet; I thought I’d talk to you first.”

“I see.” Keep calm, his inner voice was saying, for God’s sake keep calm. “And who exactly is this Jimmy Stone chap? What
do you know about him, Indi?”

“He’s a photographer, I told you, he works freelance for various publishers, he’s twenty-seven and he lives in London.”

“Is that all?”

“No! That’s not all, Gramps! We’ve talked about loads of things, what he likes, what he’s done with his life, where he’s travelled.”

John nodded, trying to keep his face impassive. “What about his parents, Indi? His background, what school he went to?”

“I can’t believe you just asked that, Gramps! What does any of that matter?”

“Not a lot, but at least you should know where he comes from!”

Indi bit back an angry retort. “He doesn’t talk about his parents,” she said tightly. “Not everyone does. And he hasn’t talked
about his school so presumably it’s not Eton!”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Indu!” John snapped. “I am asking this for your own good!”

“Oh really?”

“Yes really! Think about it India isn’t Blackpool, a train ride away, it’s a complex, difficult country with a man you hardly
know. Please, Indi, be sensible!”

“I am being sensible! I want to go.”

“Obviously!”

They both glared at each other for a moment, then Indi looked away. She never rowed with Gramps, never! She could hardly remember
a cross word between them. She turned back to him and said, “Look, I’m sorry, Gramps, it’s just that I think I’d really like
to go, to see where I was born, to be a bit independent. I don’t want to upset you, honestly I don’t.”

John heard the plea in her voice but he wasn’t able to see sense; he panicked at her words, lashed out stupidly. “You will
upset me, Indi,” he said harshly, “if you go to India.”

“But why?” Indi threw her hands up in the air. “You’ve never told me anything about India, about my parents, just that they
were killed in a car crash in 1966! That’s it, that’s all you ever said! I don’t understand why you don’t want me to go, why
you have this dislike of a country you’ve never been to!”

John sat still and looked away. How could he explain now? And yet how could he risk letting her go to India to find it out
on her own? What could he tell her? About her mother, about Phillip Mills and his awful bloody murder. That Jane ran away?
That she was pregnant by an Indian lover and accused of murdering her husband, ran away to have the baby. That she and the
Indian were killed and the baby was smuggled out of the country to England, to him and Caroline, her grandparents. That was
all he knew, yet how could he tell her all this now? Without warning, without proof? He turned back to her. “Indi, I forbid
you to go to India,” he said, knowing he had no other way open to him. “I absolutely forbid you!”

Indi looked incredulously at him. “How can you? How can you forbid me, Grandpa? I’m twenty-three years old, I can do whatever
I please!” She stood up and stormed over to the door. “You know, you were the one who said, get out, do something with your
summer vacation, and now, now I want to go to India for a few weeks, a month at the most, you’ve suddenly changed your mind!”
She shook her head, exasperated. “I don’t understand, Grandpa, I just don’t understand you!”

“I wouldn’t expect you to!” John suddenly shouted. “But I have my reasons!” He stood up and, flinging the paper down, he crossed
to the window. He stood with his back to her and stared out at the garden in darkness. In hindsight he knew that he should
have told her then but he just couldn’t do it. Perhaps it was too difficult even to admit to himself, without the pain of
having to tell Indu. He stayed silent, closed up.

“I don’t want to go without your approval,” Indi said quietly, “but I do want to go, Grandpa, I want to see where I was born,
I want to go…”

“Go then!” John cried suddenly, swinging around to face her. “But you go without my approval, you go in the knowledge that
you make me very unhappy indeed!”

Indi shook her head. “Please don’t make me feel guilty; don’t burden me with that,” she murmured. “Tell me what it is; explain,
please, Gramps.”

But John was old, he had suffered the terrible loss of his beloved daughter, the shame of her accusal and he was tired, he
couldn’t face any more emotion. “I’m sorry, Indi,” he said, “but I won’t explain and I won’t be here for you if you go to
India; you can no longer rely on me.” He turned away, unable to look at her face. “That’s it, go to India and you go entirely
alone. If you get into trouble then it’s your problem.”

Indi put her hand up to her mouth, and a sob caught in the back of her throat. This was awful; she didn’t understand any of
it. How could she go under these circumstances? And yet…Jimmy’s words went round and round in her head. She was twenty-three,
an independent person, she had to start living, she had to break free! She had to see life while she still had the chance.
Opening the door, she turned to leave. “Gramps, I…?” Her voice failed her but he didn’t look around. Silently she went
upstairs to her room and in the darkness, lay down on the bed, curled herself up into a ball and cried confused and angry
tears.

John made his early-morning cup of tea and, placing the mug and a couple of biscuits on a tray, he went through into the hall
and picked
The Times
up off the floor, placing it on top of the tray. He carried it all back upstairs to bed. There wasn’t much point in getting
up yet; there was nothing to get up for, so he laid the tray on the bedside table, kicked off his slippers and climbed back
into bed. He looked at the date on the front page of the paper and sighed heavily. It was only Tuesday, Indi had been gone
for nearly two weeks now and it felt like a month. He glanced out of the window, knowing that today was the date she had planned
to leave for Delhi and, despite the sunshine, he felt as miserable as sin.

John got up. Leaving the tea, he wandered through into Inch’s old bedroom and stood in the tidy, immaculately clean room,
longing for the mess of papers, books and clothes all strewn about the floor. Mrs. Jones had done a good job, too good a job,
he thought, and, crossing to the window, he opened it to let some air into the room, to give it some life. He heard the postman.

“It’s amazing,” he said aloud, “how important the post becomes when you’ve nothing else to occupy your mind.” And leaving
Indi’s room, closing the door firmly behind him, he went eagerly downstairs for his letters.

The first one John opened was from The Rose Growers Association. It was marked I. Bennet but he was the only member in the
house so it was obviously a typo and should have been J. He ripped the back of the envelope and unfolded the page, scanning
down the paragraphs and hurriedly reading the contents. Halfway down he stopped and peered closely at it, going back to the
first line and rereading it more closely. Then he sat down on the bottom stair and closed his eyes. It was Indu’s letter;
he had opened it by mistake. It was Indi’s registration of her first hybrid rose, the John Bennet Rose. He swallowed hard
and, standing, held on to the bannister while he fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief. He blew his nose then walked
through to the kitchen and out of the back door into the garden. He went into Indi’s potting shed and stood just inside the
door. There it was, her weeks of secrecy, a deep red bloom, the John Bennet Rose.

Minutes later, he was back in the house, the shower was running and he was hunting through an old suitcase he stored under
the bed for something he had hidden many years ago. By nine-thirty, he was shaved, showered and dressed. He took his car out
of the garage, started it up, then left the engine running while he dashed back to the potting shed for a moment. Finally
ready, he climbed back into the car, shifted into gear, and headed off up the drive, out onto the main road, to the A29 and
then on up to London.