In the Shadow of a Dream (11 page)

Dusty sighed. ‘Yes, I promise. But you’re being morbid.’

‘Morbid? I like that. Your use of the English language is excellent. It’s a mystery how quickly you pick up, keep and use words.’

‘I got a Distinction in English, thanks to your tuition.’

‘You’ve been a good lad. I’d hoped you’d turn out to be Parsee. Not that it matters, now. My aunt Gul was certain you were not and disapproved of any attempt I might make to legally adopt you. You should know, she couldn’t have stopped me if it gave you any advantage.’ He clicked his tongue and looked around him. ‘All this goes to Dinshaw. He doesn’t deserve any of it. No, not one bit…’

‘I know you fought for me. No wall is thick enough for your aunt’s voice.’

Sam laughed. ‘Bless you. I feel better already. We could go out tonight.’

‘You’ll stick to doctor’s orders. The self-prescriber has a fool for his doctor.’

Sam laughed again. ‘That from a saw about lawyers.’

‘But pa, sorry Sam, you don’t have to go all the way to Scotland to be cremated. Turn Christian or Hindu. That’ll solve the cremation problem. Or is it that you don’t wish to hurt the feelings of your brother Dinshaw and your Aunt Gul?’

‘Hindu, yes. But I’m not sure about Christians. Cremation is against their teaching. At least for the present. No, it has nothing to do with Dinshaw or my aunt. You may consider all this an unnecessary fuss about nothing. Once dead, it matters little how the body is disposed. It’s a matter of aesthetics. I would like to spend my last days with a friend. Muriel—since you’re increasingly preoccupied with your own life, and rightly so. Did you know, after she retired, Muriel toured Central and South India? She clicked away—Muriel’s an excellent photographer—and wants me to look at the results; and help select the ones to go with my text of a book she would like to publish.’

‘It would make a fine book. You write well. You make history exciting. So don’t hesitate. Make arrangements to go to Scotland as soon as you can. Don’t worry about me.’ Dusty waved a brown envelope. ‘I picked the post up as I came in and glanced at its contents.’ He waved the brown envelope again. ‘A call up from the Indian Army Selection Board.’

Sam started and winced with the spasm. ‘The Army? Dusty, how could you? I’ve been hoping you’d take up an academic career, or something in the arts line.’

‘For my present qualifications the Army offers the highest salary prospects.’

‘Also the highest dangers.’

‘You don’t believe India and Pakistan will go to war?’

‘Yes, I do. Mark my words. It’s inevitable. But I see you’ve made up your mind. From the age of ten there’s been no mistaking that look. When you stick your chin out like that, it’s a declaration of Independence.’ Sam laughed. ‘I won’t argue with you. It may, at least, prevent you from going to England. I mean immediately.’

‘England!’

‘Bal, sorry, you prefer to be called Dusty.’

‘Please, I’ve never liked Bal and I want to forget it.’

‘Sorry. How did you apply for the Army? What name did you put on the form?’

‘As at school. Sam Dustoor. In any case, I need the school certificate for my age. It would have been neat to follow the American way. Sam Dustoor Jnr.’

‘They’ll think you’re Parsee. You’ll have some explaining to do.’

‘I’ve done that already.’

‘It turns out you are not, as I hoped, a Parsee after all. Aunt Gul’s been proved right. You’re English. Or rather, half English and half Goan.’

Dusty shrugged. ‘I suspected something like that. Asif was the first to draw my attention to it by pointing to my skin colour. I didn’t want to believe it. And no one in Fatehpur knew for certain. How did you, after all these years of - of complete and utter silence…how did you find out? Who was…Was my mother English or Goan?’

‘Don’t give it another thought.’

‘But I would like to know.’

‘Your father’s name was Jenkins, Sergeant William Jenkins. Killed in Burma. He was a Welshman and he had a brother. A younger brother. Your mother was Goan. Sorry, let me start from the beginning. Four days ago, I received a mysterious letter from Calcutta; from one Clifford Jenkins. He claims to be your father’s brother and so your uncle. I…’

‘It’s a hoax. Don’t answer the letter.’

‘How he was able to trace you is a complex story. I’ll come to that later. First the letter. There, it’s on my bedside table; and my glasses. We’ll read it together. Sit by me.’ Sam opened the letter. ‘There you see: signed Clifford Jenkins.’

‘May I see the envelope? Thank you. It is postmarked Calcutta. Shucks! What on earth is an Englishman doing in Calcutta?’

‘These glasses are no good. I need a new pair. Here, read it yourself.’

‘No, Sam. Just tell me. Just tell me what all this is about.’

‘He flew from England to Calcutta, and then journeyed on to Kohima to find his brother’s grave. Then back to his brother’s regimental headquarters, in England, for further enquiries. They had some of his things, that is, his brother William’s; chief among them a wallet containing some Burmese currency and two snapshots; one, of a woman in a nurse’s uniform, and the other of William with the same woman. He’s in uniform but she’s now in mufti, wearing a loud print frock. He goes on to describe her as “pretty but black”. But more to the point, inside his brother’s battered silver cigarette case, he found a letter, an unfinished letter from William, addressed to a Nurse Molly D’Silva, the Military Hospital, Basirabad.’

‘Gosh! But where’s the connection with me? Is Molly…’

‘Patience. Basirabad is a few miles from Ajmer and a military cantonment. Ajmer has or had one of the biggest Railway and Engine Works, with a work force largely of Goans and Anglo-Indians. Now, D’Silva? That should ring a bell?’

‘You don’t mean Phil? Sorry the other one. What is D’Silva’s first name?’

‘Denzil…I can’t think how this Clifford chappie got to D’Silva, but from D’Silva he got on to the Revd Jack Jones and the St Peter’s Orphanage. Jones tells me, he has seen D’Silva, who in turn confirmed having a sister, and that she was a nurse during the war, and who disappeared nearly seventeen years ago. That’ll be 1940. D’Silva? Having a pretty sister? The mind boggles.’

‘Your mind? Have a heart, think of me. D’Silva! My uncle!’

‘He, I mean Clifford, says in his letter that he plans to come to Bombay to meet D’Silva. And, of course, he’d like to see you. D’Silva’s heard from him and, last week, wanted to come over here, but I suggested he waited till he’s met Clifford and to first check whether the girl in the photograph is indeed his sister.’

‘Poppy, do we have to go through all this?’

‘Laddie, I don’t want this to upset you, but if it’s true, we’re obliged to do the charitable and decent thing. William Jenkins could be your father. I know it’s a bit awkward. Surely you’d like to know who your…’

‘No, I don’t. All these years I’ve been alone. I want no emotional ties, apart from the one with you. Not Jones and certainly not D’Silva; and I don’t want to drag in a forgotten past. I’m not going to be unhappy again. I hate pain.’

‘You can’t escape pain. No one can. Anyway, Dusty, I couldn’t say no. I’ve said he or rather they could come. Besides, as your guardian, I need to know for sure. It may all turn out to be a mistake or a coincidence. After all, D’Silva saw nothing in you to trigger any memory of his sister. Although, now he says he did.’

‘Sam, I’m not at all keen about D’Silva. He’s…how can I put it…he’s a…’

‘I’ll save you the trouble. I know. But if it turns out you’re his nephew, he’ll be sensible and behave responsibly. And you must agree to let me invite Clifford. The poor man’s spent time and money to learn about what happened to his dead brother, and if you really are William’s son and therefore his nephew, he deserves to know. You do see that. In three or four years you’ll be a free man, free to make your own decisions. Right? Now, I gather that he, Clifford, is a doctor, a doctor of medicine. He lives in London with a wife and two girls of school going age. Look on the bright side. He may invite you to visit him in England. As William’s son, you’ll be able to…’

‘Thank God I’m trying for the army. I’ll have a good excuse to stay put in India.’

‘You’ll get in. One can assume you will. It’s in you. And you’ll pass with flying colours…probably win the Sword of Honour or Gold Medal or whatever is given to the best cadet in the Military Academy. You’re a born winner.’ Sam pointed to a row of silver trophies behind a glass fronted shelf.

‘Thank God,’ Dusty mumbled, as he looked absently at the shelf. ‘Four? I thought I had five.’ He slid the glass panel and picked up one of the cups and studied it.

‘Four out of six is more than enough,’ Sam said. ‘In fact it’s a record. In all the years I’ve been at St Thomas’s, I don’t remember any boy winning four in a single year on its Annual Sports Day. You made me feel terribly proud. It was a decent of you to let poor Rustom win the two hundred yards hurdle. He was the favourite till you almost ruined his chances.’

‘He won it fair and square. But these are just for the flat races. I was no good at the other field events. Long jump for instance and Discus.’

‘You collected a number of runners up silver medals, too. You couldn’t have won the Sportsman of the year shield, two years running, if you were not good at the field events you took part in. There, look on the second shelf.’

‘Gosh! When did you arrange all this?’

‘Some days now. The carpenter took an unconscionably long time to make the shelves. That’s my favourite, the one you’re holding.’

Dusty looked down at the cup. It read: “First prize. School Cross-country Race”. He laughed. ‘Hardly cross country. From the Gateway of India to Colaba point. Of course, as I told you, I had an unfair advantage.’

‘You mean, for a village boy, it was a piece of cake?’

‘Five to six miles was the usual daily tramp, not counting chasing after cattle.’

‘Well, you were streets ahead of the others and scarcely out of breath. I was proud and grateful. You justified all my investment in time and money.’

Dusty put the cup back and looked pensively out through the open curtains of the window. Then he turned and studied Sam. His gentle smirk betrayed a combination of mischief and smugness.

‘Sorry, Dusty, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’

‘I’ll be miles away from Bombay, you know, way up in the Himalayan foothills.’

‘The right place for a cold hearted sod.’ Sam mumbled, good-humouredly.

A month passed, and a week later Dusty was asked to attend the Army Selection Board in Poona. Sam saw him off at the Victoria Terminus Station. ‘You’re looking terribly smart in your blue blazer,’ he said.

Dusty blew on his nails and polished them against his collar.

‘It’s good to be confident, but remember, people don’t like cocky youngsters. You’ll find it plain sailing, yes, but try to hide some of your genius. Let others have the pleasure of discovering it.’

Dusty raised a placating hand and nodded. He loosened his tie. ‘I hope, Poona will be cooler. Oh, before I forget, thanks for sending me off First Class. I do hate crowds. God, haven’t I changed from that barefooted village boy you rescued, or rather, I should say, championed.’

‘Yes, but I might not have befriended you if you were indeed just barefooted. You were clean, sandal-shod, when I first saw you. Dear old Boman, he was no fool. And I’m no saintly missionary. But you’ve drifted. A penny for your thoughts, dear boy.’

‘Sam, tell me I don’t look Anglo-Indian. Punjabis can be light skinned. And Russy, I mean Rustom. Remember Rustom? He was shades lighter than me.’

‘I’m not sure, now. It’s strange how a nudge can influence one’s thinking! If you remember, I thought you were Parsee. Let’s not dwell on this.’

They studied each other for a while. Then Sam said: ‘You haven’t asked.’

‘Because as far as I’m concerned, no news is good news.’

‘Actually, I’ve had news. This morning. Before we set out. Not from Goa but London, which explains the long silence. You’ll be happy to know it
is
good news. I’m happy too. Funny,’ Sam chuckled, ‘how the thought of your absence from me made my heart grow fonder.’

‘You do have a look of Henry Fonda.’

‘Ha, ha. Now that’s not worthy of you.’ Sam glanced at his watch, then stopped a fat, middle-aged man, who wore a white cotton suit and pith helmet. ‘Excuse me, is there a delay in departure?’