Jani and the Greater Game (The Multiplicity Series Book 1) (11 page)

He laughed. “That is often true of the extremely rich. They are so well-educated they know nothing!”

“Do you know, papa-ji, I thought before I landed in England that poverty only existed in India, in the slums of Bombay, Delhi and Calcutta. It was something of a shock to discover that terrible poverty existed in London, in places like Manchester and Leeds and Glasgow. For all Britain’s power and great wealth, those in power do little to alleviate the suffering of the masses.”

“The ‘masses’... You are sounding like something from Marx and Engels, now.”

“Please, father, don’t patronise me. I’m not seeking revolution, merely change. Equality. In London I met and spoke with Indian Nationalists, fair and educated people who put forward the case for Indian autonomy. And what they said seemed reasonable to me.”

“And what did your aristocratic friend think of this?” her father asked.

She felt a sudden flare of irritation. “I was not in the least bothered by Sebastian’s thoughts on the matter, father. My opinions are not shackled to my... to Sebastian’s opinions and prejudices.”

Her father sighed and squeezed her hand. “Jani-ji, Jani-ji... I am old and wear my experience heavily. There is much honesty, even truth, in what you think and say, but...”

“But they are the thoughts and words of callow, idealistic youth, is that what you are trying to say?”

He looked into her eyes and smiled his wonderfully loving smile. “I am trying to say that the world and its ways are far, far more mysterious, wonderful and terrible, than you might ever imagine, my darling. I would like to tell you everything I know, but...”

“But?”

“But I could not burden someone I love with such knowledge, Jani-ji.”

She wanted to protest, but this was not the time to do so.

His eyes strayed to the occasional table beside his huge leather armchair, and the oval photograph in pride of place upon it. The sepia-tinted print showed a beautiful young woman in a long Victorian dress, holding a parasol and posing against a rose-covered bower in some cheap photographer’s studio in Bromley.

He said, “You remind me so much of your mother, Jani-ji.”

“In temperament? In character?” she asked. She did not look much like the woman who had given birth to her eighteen years ago, though perhaps she had inherited her mother’s luxuriant raven hair.

“Yes, and in spirit. Do you know, I think Eleanor loved India even more than I did. She loved my country with the passion of the convert, a passion that blinded her to the many and obvious faults of the subcontinent – and this engendered in her a righteous indignation, even anger, at what she perceived as the faults of the Raj. She was an outspoken firebrand when I met her in Bombay in 1900. She was on a speaking tour of the Empire, spreading the suffragette message far and wide, aside from entertaining audiences with her music...” He laughed. “And then we met and fell in love, and Eleanor transferred her passionate conscience to the betterment of all things Indian.”

“I wish I could remember her,” Jani murmured.

“Oh, she loved you so much, Jani-ji. You were the answer to her prayers. We had been hoping for so long for a child, and belatedly you came along. And then, just three years later... when she learned that she was dying...” He stopped, his eyes pooled with tears, and Jani reached out and gripped his hand. “She grieved for herself, grieved at not being able to watch you grow to womanhood. She so much wanted to educate you, to see you flourish and prosper... I promised that I would do my best.”

“And you
have
, papa-ji!”

“Your mother would be proud of you, just as I am more proud of you than words can express.”

They sipped their tea in strained silence, Jani wanting to tell her father how much she loved him but unable to find the words to do so. A minute later the doors at the far end of the lounge swung open and Mr Vikram announced that it was time for Mr Chatterjee’s afternoon medication.

Her father squeezed her hand. “I will see you for dinner at seven, my dear. At least,” he went on, “I am still blessed with a healthy appetite. And I have ordered, for your homecoming, a veritable feast.”

“I’ll look forward to that, papa-ji.”

“After my medication, I must rest a while, to prepare myself for dinner.”

“And I can see you tomorrow?”

“I would like to spend as much time with you as possible. We will have breakfast together, after which I must work until late afternoon, when we will take tea.”

She had much more to talk to her father about, not least whether he knew anything of the strange prisoner she had come across in the wreckage of the airship. Surely, as Security Minister, he would be privy to information regarding Jelch.

She watched as Mr Vikram assisted her father from the chair and guided him, slowly, from the room.

Jani left the lounge and made her way through the cool, old house, reacquainting herself with the once familiar furnishings, the oil paintings of the English countryside and the many faded family photographs. Nothing had changed since her childhood; she guessed that nothing had changed much in the house since her mother’s death. The house was how Eleanor Markham had left it, a time-capsule reflecting the design and decoration of the Victorian era. Her father had neither the time nor the aesthetic sensibility to institute change, nor the desire to alter what was, after all, his wife’s handiwork. The house was a memorial to her existence.

Jani went to her room and turned on the overhead fan. The wooden blades began to turn sluggishly, creating a pleasant cooling downdraught.

She lay on the overstuffed featherbed and looked around the room. The nursery wallpaper, the child’s drawings on the wall, the rocking horse and wooden building blocks in the corner, all belonged to the little girl she had been before being whisked away to England and boarding school. She felt less of a connection to this room, oddly enough, than to the rest of the house. It was as if it had belonged to another little girl, not herself.

She drifted off, inhabiting that strange hinterland between wakefulness and true sleep in which dream images seem startlingly vivid and real. She was with her father and they were on the flight deck of an airship, laughing together at their adventure as the ship sped through the cloud cover.

Then these pleasant images were replaced by others, far less pleasant. She was running through the wreckage of an airship crash, following a strange creature she knew was Jelch, and Russian soldiers were chasing her.

She screamed as Jelch fell, his torso riddled with bullets...

CHAPTER

SIX

The summons – At her father’s bedside –

Mr Chatterjee breathes his last –

“You must find Jani and warn her...”

“J
ANI
! J
ANI, QUICKLY.
You must come!”

She sat upright, rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?” She saw that darkness had descended outside and that the bedside lamp was glowing.

“Almost midnight, Jani. Your father has fallen ill again. They took him to hospital in an ambulance five minutes ago. Mr Rai is waiting in the car. He will take us now, Jani!”

His words had the instant effect of banishing whatever sleep still lingered. She slipped her bare feet into her sandals and stood up. “Midnight? I was due to dine with my father at seven.” She had a sudden sense of a terrible injustice done to her. “But why wasn’t I summoned?”

Anand rocked his head from side to side. “Your father was not feeling too well at seven, Jani, and when I came for you, you were sleeping soundly. Your father said that you were not to be disturbed.”

“Ah-cha. Very well.”

They hurried through the silent, darkened house, and Jani had the bleak thought that if her father was not to survive the night, then she would forever regret not dining with him one last time. As they stepped out into the humid night and crossed to the waiting car, she banished the thought. She was being maudlin and ridiculous; her father would rally and pull through and she would enjoy many more fine meals with him.

“Papa-ji felt unwell just before dinner, Jani!” Mr Rai said as he steered the car onto the quiet street and headed north. “He said he would eat nothing. I was a little worried and summoned Vikram, as your father has maintained a healthy appetite of late. Vikram was with papa-ji all evening, when just thirty minutes ago he took a turn for the worse and an ambulance was summoned.”

“Do you know exactly what was wrong...?” she began.

“He was all hot and cold and then he was sick, Jani. That is all I know.”

From the back seat, Anand said, “He was complaining of bad stomach pains at seven, Jani. But he has had these pains before, and once he was rushed to hospital and was kept in for one day, after which he was allowed home. The same will happen again, Jani, believe me.”

“I hope so,” she said as she watched the illuminated blur of traffic swing around Connaught Circus like the rides of a carousel.

Ten minutes later they came to the monolithic white block of the Queen Victoria Hospital set in acres of green lawn. Mr Rai left the car and guided Jani and Anand into the building, through a busy reception area and along interminable corridors crowded with shawled figures sitting on chairs or lying on the floor. They stepped from the building and crossed a lawn to a second, smaller building. Jani moved as if still in a dream, her senses muffled, the reality of the situation seemingly distant and relayed to her after a deadening lapse of seconds.

Mr Rai explained, “This is a special place set aside for government officials. Here your father will receive the very finest treatment.”

He spoke to a nurse at reception. Jani noticed a few half-familiar faces seated around the reception area: her father’s secretary, a couple of old men whom she thought were fellow politicians or government officials and other, younger men she assumed were reporters.

The nurse hurried Jani, Anand and Mr Rai along a corridor to a private room. “I will summon a doctor to talk to you immediately,” she said and moved off along the corridor.

Jani entered the room, leaving Anand and Mr Rai seated in the corridor.

Mr Vikram, who looked more like a wrestler than a nurse, sat on a chair beside her father’s bed. “If I could be alone with my father for a little while,” she murmured.

The nurse, huge and impassive, nodded without speaking, rose and stepped from the room.

Jani took the vacated seat, reached out and gripped her father’s thin hand.

Beneath his eyelids, which reminded her of tissue-thin liquorice cigarette paper, his eyes flickered back and forth – and Jani wondered at his dreams. Was he flying in an airship, with Jani by his side, laughing at the adventure they were having together?

She whispered, “I am here, papa-ji. I am with you.”

She willed him to open his eyes and speak to her.

She jumped as the door opened and a grey-haired British doctor hurried in, sat on the neighbouring bed, and glanced at his clipboard.

“I am Janisha Chatterjee,” she said.

He introduced himself as Dr Hammond, and went on, “I’ve been treating your father, Miss Chatterjee. You can be proud of him; he’s shown remarkable courage and resilience. His illness would have seen off most people months ago.”