Under the Jeweled Sky (25 page)

The streets lining the periphery where the old city met the new heaved with the colorful business of daily life. Horse-drawn carts, some overloaded with passengers, struggled along, past the tightly packed shop fronts crammed with all manner of goods. Busy women flowed along, saris and shawls pulled closely against the cold. Men gathered by open chai stalls, squatted on haunches, smoking beedies. Shrines clutched to the old walls here and there, strung with bright golden marigolds, thin trails of incense rising through them, the larger ones adorned with more complicated arrangements of pale carnations and fragrant pinks, set into concentric patterns. Groups of policemen stood idly on corners with long black batons, blanketed against the chill, shorts covered over with long shirts belted tightly at the waist, khaki headdresses flashed through with bands of red. They talked among themselves, taking little notice of the chaos passing by. All around, the old city swarmed with people and animals, cows roaming through the bazaars, dogs scavenging in gutters, thieving monkeys watching for opportunity from the rooftops. For thousands, the streets were home, a place for buying, selling, eating, sleeping, performing their ablutions. Fakirs with matted hair, oblivious to all around them, inflicted punishment on themselves, piercing their skin with metal skewers, lying on beds of nails. On a corner, a sadhu rocked and chanted to the ground, smoking hard from a clay chillim, his face white with the ash of the dead. Thin notes rose from a snake charmer's pipe, hooded cobra swaying hypnotically before him, a shallow reed basket laid out, hoping for coins.

“Must be quite a change from Ooty,” Lucien said.

“I don't know how anyone can stand it.” Dr. Schofield looked out of the car window on to the passing scene. “I think that a man has a certain amount of time for cities before the charm wears off. Less in a place like this. One gets to the point when one can no longer keep up with the pace.”

“I can understand that.”

“I must say, I have always preferred the countryside. I'd be quite happy to live in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do except count sheep.”

“I'm a city man myself. Although I wouldn't mind having a little place in the country one day. Something with a decent bit of fishing.”

Lucien thought Dr. Schofield looked like the sort of man who probably liked fishing, and heaven knew they needed to find something to talk about over the next two hours. Sophie had deliberately maneuvered him into this outing, orchestrating the conversation over supper last night until she had him well and truly cornered. Had he realized what she was up to, he would have been more careful and said that he was tied up all day. And now he was stuck with Dr. Schofield on his wife's cheerful insistence. Had the old man not been sitting right there at the table, he would have told her it was out of the question. All this getting-to-know-each-other rubbish that she had spouted at him as he got into bed. She had tricked him and he told her so, but she was so pleased with herself that she didn't even notice how intensely irritated he was. There was no point in him feeling peeved about it. They were here now, so they might as well make the most of it, even though their conversation had dried up before they had gone much further than the compound gates.

“Fishing, eh? Trout or carp?”

“I don't mind,” Lucien said. “So long as it puts up a decent fight.”

Dr. Schofield seemed cheered. “You should come and try your luck in Ooty. The lakes are gorged with fish. It's impossible not to catch something.”

“I might just do that. Perhaps in the summer, although it can be difficult to get away when things are busy.”

“What about your annual leave?”

“Yes. But one is expected to go back to England to see family and deal with the usual matters. It's better to get out of the country one is serving in, I find.”

Dr. Schofield watched Lucien as he spoke, the words so carefully crafted, falling so easily from this man now married to his daughter. He listened to the well-presented disclosure wrapped up in euphemisms and pleasantries and was left with the clear impression that his son-in-law had absolutely no intention of visiting him in Ooty. It did not figure in his plans and would no doubt be nothing more than a grave inconvenience. Lucien bore the most earnest of expressions, his face carefully arranged as he spoke of his commitments and feigned disappointment.

The once congested road began to clear around them, turning into a wide avenue, leaving behind the burgeoning throng of street life, the car windows now looking out on to the open parkland that surrounded a grand white hotel built in the old colonial style.

“Here we are,” Lucien said. “They have a jolly decent bar and rather nice gardens. With any luck the sun will be out soon. Looks quite promising. What do you think?” He peered out of the window, skyward.

• • •

It was usually only on a Sunday that Dr. Schofield might partake of a little whisky before lunch, sitting at his desk, fiddling with bits of instruments that he was sure he could fix, if only he could work out how. He had trouble getting to grips with the mechanics of things. It was not that he wasn't interested. He was. He had always been fascinated by how things worked, but the science of it eluded him. Still, he stuck at it, particularly on a Sunday morning, while delicious spicy aromas wafted in from the kitchen, Salil busy with his pans while Mrs. Nayar chattered away to no one in particular and her husband slept in a chair on the back porch, pretending to keep watch. There were even times when he thought the pieces were all about to fall into place nicely, but then he would lose hold of his train of thought and put them down again with a sigh of defeat. He held up his glass and admired the pale straw-colored single malt.

“It's a Speyhawk,” Lucien said. “I think you'll like it. Cigarette?”

Dr. Schofield thought about it for a while. “Yes. Why not?” He put one to his lips and accepted Lucien's light, then relaxed into his deep leather chair. “Single malt and cigarettes at lunchtime. I don't think a man could ask for much more, do you?”

“Don't get the wrong idea.” Lucien smiled. “This is a far cry from my usual daily routine. But yes, I could get used to it very easily.”

“How are you enjoying India?”

“Delhi's an excellent posting,” Lucien said. “Had my eye on it for a while. I would have tried for it sooner, but there were…” He stalled briefly. “The timing wasn't right.”

“Ah,” Dr. Schofield said, taking a sip of his whisky, savoring it, nodding quietly. “A man in need of a wife, eh?”

“Well.” Lucien let out a small laugh. “Not that I planned it like that at all. But as luck would have it…”

“You just happened to fall in love with a girl who knows her way around the place and speaks a bit of the lingo. Are you learning?”

“Not specifically.” Lucien opened his menu and glanced over it casually. “Picking up a few phrases as I go along, but nobody really needs it these days. Everybody speaks English. Everybody we need to deal with anyway.”

“How long are you planning on staying?”

“The full term, if we can.” Lucien scanned the descriptions of the lunch dishes perfunctorily. “Four years, although those kinds of decisions are pretty much out of one's hands if the powers that be decide to move one elsewhere.”

“Has Sophie settled in all right?”

“Yes, I think so. The DWs are a pretty good bunch. Always busy with something. She'll soon find her feet.” He took a puff of his cigarette. Maybe if Sophie would just learn to relax, she might stop making such hard work of it. She was uptight, and he didn't know what was wrong with her. Of course it was all a big change, but what else had she expected? His was a very serious career, requiring a great deal of his time, and she had known that from the outset. If she had wanted the kind of husband who hung around the house smoking a pipe and wearing slippers, then she had married the wrong man. No doubt she was broody, he thought, although he wished she would be less obvious about it. Her availability dampened him, her air of hopefulness. It was unexciting. Sometimes he could almost hear her thinking:
maybe
this
time…

Lucien closed his menu with a decisive clap. “I think I'll chance the roast beef.”

“Good idea,” Dr. Schofield said, his menu unopened. Lucien relayed their order to the waiter and relaxed into his chair. Dr. Schofield looked at him thoughtfully. “They do say that the first year of marriage is the hardest. Getting used to each other and all that. You mustn't think me prying. I'm very glad that Sophie has found a good man to settle down with. She's my only child, you know, which makes me overly protective, I suppose, although heaven knows she's grown up enough to make up her own mind and take care of herself. I was rather hoping that…” He cut himself short.

“What?”

“That she would meet a good solid sort.” He smiled briefly. “I don't suppose I might trouble you for another cigarette?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” Lucien offered his lighter. “I must say,” Dr. Schofield sat back, puffing, “it's rather nice to have some male company. It had quite slipped my mind that I might actually have a son-in-law one day. I hope we shall become good friends.”

“I'll drink to that.” Lucien motioned to the waiter with his empty glass. “How about another?”

“Why not?” Dr. Schofield said. “Can't fly on one wing.”

“Don't worry. We'll walk it off after lunch.”

“Walking? Now there's an offer, although I hear you're something of a swimmer.”

“Yes. When the mood takes me.”

“I don't suppose you'd mind if I joined you? It's been a long time since I've had a pool at my disposal. I could do with loosening up the old limbs a bit.”

“Good Lord, no,” Lucien said. “It's much too cold to swim in this weather.”

• • •

Ros Appleton tapped her teaspoon against her saucer and called her drawing room to order, every seat occupied, the chatter high-pitched and a little unruly. Taking position before the fireplace, she held before her the sheet of paper detailing the itinerary everyone had been speculating upon. “Let's get down to business, shall we? Lady Macmillan will be visiting the new Cheshire Home for Incurables. And before anyone says anything,” she raised a hand against the looks of horror, “the place will be cleared of anyone who's even remotely contagious, and Lady Macmillan will be kept at a safe distance from unfortunates.”

“And who will be escorting her?”

“Lady Macmillan will have her own staff with her.”

“Surely we will all have an opportunity to meet her?”

“Well, of course the more senior of us will, but it's going to be a very brief visit.”

“So we won't be hosting a special luncheon or tea in her honor?”

“Not this time.”

“Oh, that
is
disappointing.”

“This isn't some kind of Kensington tea party, Tessa.” Ros glared at her. “If you want to put on a grand display to impress your friends, then I suggest you invite Cary Grant to supper and call all the newspapers.” Sophie bit the smile forming on her lips. “We are naturally all very excited, and I am sure that everyone can be fitted in somewhere.”

Sophie stole a glance at her wristwatch, the hands nearing two o'clock. She wondered if they had eaten lunch yet, and whether they were getting on well. Lucien had seemed quite put out when she had told him of the invitation she had extended to her father, with it being their first Christmas together and all. It was almost as though he was deliberately trying to avoid meeting her father altogether, and it had led to another one of those awkward spells when she had tried to mask her upset while he huffed and puffed before announcing he was going out to work off his tension in the pool. Her father had warned her of this, the opening movement of any marriage being a trial of fire in the ways of forging a life with another human being. She had left it late, he had told her, which would make it all the more difficult, as she had no doubt become a little set in her ways. Men preferred to be at the center of things, to believe that they are the ones wearing the trousers, as it were. He had said so with a pleasant smile, and had lit a cigarette as Mrs. Nayar cleared the remnants of their supper away after pressing upon them another plate of Salil's sweets.

“Are you all right?” Tessa nudged her lightly.

“Yes,” Sophie said, returning her attention to Ros Appleton and her interminable list.

• • •

“That was some dinner,” Dr. Schofield said, dropping himself into an armchair with a sigh of exhaustion. “I shan't need to eat for a week. Tony Hinchbrook is quite a character, isn't he? Not many of his sort left these days. A colonial old-timer if ever I saw one. Charming wife, mind. Shame she had to duck out like that, although I expect I would have done the same in her shoes.”

“He's an absolute beast when he's drunk.” Sophie threw her shawl aside. “It won't be the first time she's stormed off and locked him out. She's probably hoping he'll pass out on their doorstep. He won't remember a thing about it when he wakes up in the morning. Never does, apparently. Why some people have to get so utterly plastered every time they step out of the house is completely beyond me.”

“Dear, oh dear. I pity the man's poor liver.”

“Care for a nightcap?” Lucien went to the tantalus on the sideboard.

“I'm going up.” Sophie placed a weary kiss on her father's head.

“Good night, darling,” Lucien said. “I won't be long.”

“Not for me.” Dr. Schofield waved a polite refusal. “I think I'll turn in for the night as well. Oh,” he placed a hand on his chest, “I don't suppose you have any indigestion salts handy? That rich supper is playing havoc with my constitution.”