City of Ghosts (26 page)

Bissen's face lit up. ‘A treat?'

‘Yes . . . Doctor Chopra and the other medics want you to get some fresh air. I'm taking you outside.'

‘But I cannot walk,' Bissen reminded her.

‘If Mohammed won't go to the mountain . . .' joked Lillian.

‘What?'

‘Never mind,' she said. ‘All will be revealed.'

Ten minutes later she returned with a wooden chair on
wheels and two Indian hospital guards. She had placed two cushions on the seat.

‘Your transport has arrived!' she said.

‘Oh.' Bissen didn't know what else to say.

He had seen many of the other men in such chairs but had never sat in one himself and he felt excited. It had been a long time since he'd been in the open air and the thought of it made him giddy.

‘Can you please help Mr Singh into the wheelchair?' Lillian asked the guards.

‘It is your lucky day today,' one of them said to Bissen in Punjabi.

‘
Bhai
, with my injury, every day is a lucky day,' replied Bissen as they helped him out of bed.

Progress was slow and painful; the extra painkillers that Lillian had given him made Bissen feel weak. But eventually, with the help of the guards, he was sitting comfortably in the chair, although there remained a dull ache in what was left of his right buttock. Once she was sure he was ready, Lillian thanked the guards and began to wheel Bissen out of the ward. As they passed the other patients, Bissen said a few greetings. Most were returned in kind but one or two of the men scowled at him. Bissen guessed they were too caught up in their own worries to care about him. It was only natural, he told himself; he knew they meant no harm. Once he was out of the ward, he soon forgot them.

‘The light will feel bright,' Lillian warned him. ‘Just let your eyes get used to it for a while . . .'

She wheeled him past yet more guards, then through the ornate lobby and out into the gardens. She was right –
the light was blinding, but any discomfort soon passed and Bissen looked out on a lovely, sunny late summer's day.

‘Where would you like to go?' Lillian asked.

‘I do not mind,' replied Bissen. ‘It is so very good of you to do this for me.'

‘You're welcome. You looked so pale indoors. The fresh air has already brought colour to your cheeks.'

Bissen inhaled deeply. ‘It is wonderful,' he said.

‘Let's go round the outside of the pavilion,' suggested Lillian. ‘That way you can see where you've been staying. And you can see how beautiful it is too.'

Bissen nodded. ‘I would like that.'

‘And then I'll take you out into the public gardens and maybe even find you a view of the sea.'

‘Yes, please.'

For the next hour or so Lillian wheeled Bissen around until her arms began to ache. When finally she needed to rest, she stopped next to a large rose bush and plucked one of the flowers for him. Bissen immediately held it to his nostrils. It had delicately scented pink petals.

‘Isn't it wonderful?' asked Lillian.

‘It is,' said Bissen. ‘I have loved roses since I was a child.'

‘Me too,' replied Lillian. ‘Just think: we are about the same age, we grew up at different ends of the earth, yet both of us grew to love roses.'

Bissen nodded at her, then smiled, handing her the flower.

‘For me?' she asked, her face beaming.

‘I like this you do for me,' he said.

‘Well, it's all part of the service, sir. The doctor feels you need more fresh air.'

Bissen wondered whether to say what was on his mind. He didn't want to offend the nurse or upset her in any way. Maybe he was just being silly but he had to ask.

‘Will you be bringing me again?'

Lillian looked into his pale-grey eyes and nodded. ‘I'd love to,' she replied.

‘Me too.' He grinned from ear to ear.

Lillian blushed and looked away. She wondered again what her friends would say. There was something so sweet, so wonderful about Bissen. And he was truly handsome, just like she'd always imagined a foreigner. She recalled her Uncle Bertie telling her of the Sikhs he'd met while in India. Proud, fierce and utterly loyal; true warriors, and so charming, her uncle had said, they'd give the French a run for their money.

‘You'd fall at their feet, Lillian,' he'd joked.

And he had been right. Here she was, her heart all a-flutter. She decided to go and see her uncle, and tell him, perhaps, of her Sikh soldier.

THE NIGHT AIR
carried a chill that cut through to the bone. As Lillian walked along the promenade, every now and then she looked out at the darkness over the sea. The sky was almost black, but in places the clouds lightened to shades of navy and marine blue with touches of steel grey. Lillian shivered, wishing that she had worn a warmer coat. Luckily she was only five minutes away from the small subterranean bar where she'd arranged to meet her uncle.

Uncle Bertie stood as she approached his table, smiling warmly. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with a full head of grey hair combed back with brilliantine cream. His pale blue eyes were mischievous and his nose proud. Despite his age, he carried not a single ounce of fat and regularly attracted the attention of women young enough to be his granddaughters. Not that Uncle Bertie noticed, Lillian thought to herself as she sat down.

‘Good evening, darling Lillian,' Bertie said, his eyes sparkling. ‘You look absolutely radiant.'

Lillian shook her head. ‘I look dreadful,' she replied, ‘but you're very sweet.'

Bertie sat down and introduced his dinner companion, Max, even though Lillian had known him for years.

‘I do believe my dear uncle is beginning to show his age,' Lillian joked to Max.

‘Aren't we all?' said Max. ‘Just the other day, I closed my eyes after a rather splendid lunch and did not wake up until well after supper.'

‘Perhaps the wine played some part . . .?' suggested Bertie.

The two men smiled at each other.

‘We haven't ordered yet,' Bertie told Lillian. ‘Would you like to take supper with us?'

‘That would be lovely.'

Max stood up and excused himself. He wore an elegant grey three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt. His dark hair and moustache were immaculate, but his face was flushed and his brown eyes glazed.

‘It seems to me that Max has been at the wine again,' said Lillian as she watched him walk away.

‘He had a meeting in London,' Bertie told her. ‘And then he came down to see me. We've been tasting reds.'

‘I see . . .'

Bertie summoned a waiter to pour Lillian a glass of wine, then asked her what was on her mind.

‘Oh, nothing much,' she said.

‘Come, come, my dear, I know you too well.'

Lillian smiled. ‘When you lived in India—'

‘India?'

‘I was wondering about it . . .'

‘
Wondering?
'

‘Yes. I was talking to someone the other day, a friend, and I happened to mention your time in Delhi and I started to wonder what it was like.'

Bertie took a sip from his wine glass. ‘It was wonderful,' he said. ‘It was like nothing else on earth. The colours, the smells, the sounds . . . But I've already told you all about it, Lillian; why the renewed interest?'

‘No reason,' she lied.

The room was dark and almost empty. It had once been a smugglers' cave with a concealed entrance, connected to a network of caves that stretched along the seafront and back into the town. The walls were bare and had been given a colour wash of orange and red. The ceiling was panelled in the same oak that had been used to make the bar. Thick cobwebs hung in every corner and the air was dense with minute specks of dust and the slightly sweet, musky aroma of damp. As Max returned, Bertie clapped his hands together.

‘Shall we order?' he suggested.

After they'd eaten and their plates had been taken away, Bertie poured Lillian another glass of wine.

‘So,' he said, putting the bottle down on the table again, ‘this friend – is he Muslim or Sikh?'

Lillian's eyes widened and she looked away.

‘I think I've hit a nerve,' Bertie said to Max.

‘She
is
blushing rather,' agreed Max.

Lillian composed herself and turned to her uncle. ‘How
could you know?' she asked him. Uncle Bertie had always been the cleverest person she knew, but surely even he wasn't that clever.

‘Despite my love of Sherlock Holmes stories,' he replied, ‘this particular deduction was rather less than elementary . . .'

‘What do you mean?' said Lillian.

Bertie grinned. ‘You work at the Royal Pavilion as a nurse,' he pointed out. ‘The only patients you treat are Indian soldiers, and the vast majority of those Indian gentlemen are Sikhs, with a good scattering of Mussulmen thrown in; as I said, rather
less
than elementary.'

Max looked confused. ‘What are you two talking about?'

‘I think my niece may have fallen for a handsome young soldier,' explained Bertie. ‘Tell me, my dear, is he tall?'

Lillian felt herself blushing even more as Bissen's face came to mind. ‘He's just a friend,' she replied. ‘We talk sometimes . . .'

Max and Bertie shared knowing smiles.

‘Yes, but is he tall?' repeated Bertie.

Lillian nodded. ‘As tall as you, dear Uncle. And he's a Sikh.'

Bertie walked Lillian back to her lodging house after dinner. Max had made his excuses and left them to it, eager to catch the last train back to London in order to attend an important meeting the following day.

‘What is it that Max does?' Lillian enquired.

‘You've been asking me that same question for years,' Bertie reminded her. ‘He works for the government, as you know.'

‘But what exactly does he do?'

‘Something at the Home Office. He doesn't tell me because when we meet he'd rather forget about work and enjoy himself.'

Lillian decided not to question her uncle any further. His relationship with Max was complicated, she knew, and she had no desire to push him.

‘All these questions are merely a deflection,' added Bertie. ‘Tell me more about this soldier.'

Lillian shrugged. ‘There isn't much to say . . . He was injured at Neuve Chapelle by a grenade blast. His right leg is a mess and he'll limp for the rest of his life.'

‘At least he's alive,' Bertie said thoughtfully. ‘So many young men have died during this awful war and it shows no sign of ending.'

‘We talk about things . . .' Lillian went on.

‘But you must talk to lots of patients,' said Bertie. ‘You rarely tell me about them. What makes this one so special?'

Lillian wondered whether she should tell him about the way her heart fluttered when she was about to start a shift at the hospital, knowing that she'd see Bissen. Should she admit that her dreams were filled with images of his smile and his eyes?

‘Dear God,' Bertie exclaimed when Lillian failed to reply. ‘You really are in love!'

‘Do you disapprove?' Lillian asked, concerned.

He took her hand and shook his head. ‘Your happiness is my only concern,' he told her. ‘If you are taken with this chap then I am happy for you.'

‘But nothing has happened between us and I don't know
what to do,' she admitted. ‘Part of me thinks that I should tell him how I feel.'

‘Does he feel the same?' asked Bertie.

‘I'm not sure . . . I think so. Sometimes the way he looks at me . . .' She tailed off. What if she was wrong?

He gave her a hug. ‘Well, at least we know he has good taste,' he said.

‘But even if he does feel the same, there are too many dangers.'

Bertie squeezed his niece's hand. Despite her tender years, she had a great deal of common sense. She understood that any relationship between a white girl and an Indian soldier would be frowned upon by most of society.

‘Well, do keep me informed of any developments,' he said as he took his leave of her. ‘You'll work it out, I'm sure. Are you coming for lunch on Sunday?'

Lillian nodded. ‘I wouldn't miss it for the world,' she replied. ‘Goodnight.'

LILLIAN SAT ON
a bench in the pavilion gardens; Bissen sat facing her in his wheelchair. His pale skin was rosy from the sharp wind and he had a distant look in his eyes.

‘Is something the matter?' she asked.

Bissen shook his head. ‘No. I am just thinking about my family. I have not written to them since I left France and I have no idea if they know of my injuries.'

‘But surely the authorities have informed them,' said Lillian, looking concerned. How awful for Bissen's mother – not knowing if her son was alive or dead.

‘I must ask,' said Bissen. ‘I will check with the doctor when I see him. He is good man.'

‘Yes, he is,' replied Lillian. ‘I can post a letter for you, if you write one.'

‘Thank you. You are very good to me.'

Lillian patted the parcel that sat on her lap.

‘What is that?' Bissen asked her, watching a fat pigeon pecking around behind the bench.

‘A treat,' she said, smiling at him.

The unseasonably cold weather meant that there weren't many people in the gardens, which suited Lillian. She had chosen a seat at the far end, by a second gate that led to a side street. Several tall bushes and some trees obscured much of the pavilion, affording them a degree of privacy.

‘What is the smell?' asked Bissen as his stomach rumbled slightly.

Lillian smiled again as she unwrapped the newspaper from around the parcel. Bissen looked down and saw food.

‘Fish and chips,' she said triumphantly.