The Call of the Thunder Dragon (50 page)

Falstaff was already thirsty
taking his whiskey with plenty of water. Zam tried it without and
gasped.

“It is strong, but not as rich as
sauce wine?” She smiled her cheeks reddening. “Another?”

The procession continued as the
whiskey bearer circled the room. The haggis then followed, carried
by a line of Assam boys, led by the chief steward then his
assistant. Maka-San, the Japanese agent. On a series of silver
platters, the haggises arrived in a procession circling the
room.

By coincidence, the Haggis
carried by Maka came to the second table. The Japanese agent
carrying the steaming Haggis to Falstaff’s table could barely keep
his face straight. He glowered with malice at the sight of Falstaff
sitting, grinning and laughing, being waited on by his waiters. He
contemplated the Nambu pistol in his desk, then he thought of the
damage it would do to the club if he acted so at the club’s
celerbration of Burns’.

All the Haggises reached the
tables steaming hot. The music stopped and everyone took their
seats in anticipation of the address to a Haggis. Just as in
Ayrshire or by expatriate Scots everywhere, at the Jorhat Club, the
address to the haggis was delivered, in the same way.

The honoured reader this year was
long time club member, Doctor John Levinstone. He seized his moment
fluently and with high melodrama began giving his rendition of the
eight verses of ‘To a Haggis’.

The Scottish burr he affected
raised more than a few titters. Falstaff kept Zam quiet by
refilling her glass from his own.

Finally, the doctor was ready and
with a knife poised, plunged it into the haggis as he reached the
line:

“His knife see rustic labour
dight,” He cut the casing like a surgeon along its length; then
without apology to the many vegetarians among the guests; dispensed
the line:

"...and trenching its gushing
entrails", scolded himself on the Haggis contents and finished
uniquely with several words of Anglo-Saxon, German and French.

The recital ended with him
raising the haggis platter, taking some care, not to spill it over
the President and the rest of the committee, triumphantly he gave
the final line:

“Gie her a haggis!” and dropped
one end of the platter, causing a cascade of haggis to cover the
astonished president’s wife.

Falstaff tried his best to
explain the proceedings to Zam, who was now overflowing with
giggles and whiskey.

“No, it is not usual for the
sheep’s stomach and its contents to be served by the headman from
his wife’s bosom! But under the circumstances I think he’d be the
one best trusted with the spoon?” Falstaff commented.

Having done his bit doctor John
left the floor, seeking refuge in a tall glass of whiskey. The
speaker unable to take his eyes off the spectacle of the president
bent over his wife with a severing spoon on the pretext of plunging
it into her corset, had to be prompted by the chief steward to
continue with the toasts. The guests rose joining in a toast to the
haggis.

The haggis, of course, was served
with neeps, a dish of diced swede or in Assam a mix of Mula and
rutabaga. A dish of the same mashed with ‘ghost peppers’ was also
served. An extremely spicy dish for those caught unaware. Tatties;
potatoes and especially for Jorhat Taro root with Saffron and
Cumin.

The Jorhat club Haggis was
considered a champion; firm, slightly sticky and not too dry,
sticking to the same recipe found in the 1926 Glasgow Cookery
Book.

Zam had no trouble with the
Haggis, which apart from sheep’s heart, liver and lungs contains
oatmeal. Coming from Bhutan, she was used to buckwheat and mutton,
dumplings and Yak.

“Oh, it is so nice! The dry
pepper is so rich!” Zam added to the praise of the food.

Circulating were also Haggis
Pakora, India’s answer to haggis by deep frying it in batter. There
was also a vegetarian alternative for the many Sikh, Hindu and
Buddhist guests.

Between the singing and cheers,
Falstaff tried everything, the whiskey prompting his appetite. He
helped himself to two helpings of clootie dumpling, a sweet pudding
prepared in a cloth with dried fruit, suet, sugar and spice. Then
rashly did the same for the Typsy Laird, a trifle drowned in
whiskey, too much for some guests but just filling for
Falstaff.

Apart from the double helpings
Zam matched him spoon for spoon.

“Another bowlful? You are never
full?” Zam observed.

Entertainment followed
immediately after the meal, giving chance for coffee or tea to be
served, many of the true Scots and Yorkshire men present insisting
on a large pot of tea rather than the bitter black stuff. The rest
allowed belts to be loosened a notch and the nourishment to
settle.

A nervous and tipsy, redhead
stood up and took the floor and performed Burns’ ‘My luve is like a
red red rose.’

After the singing and recitals
the president took to his feet to deliver an oration on the life of
Robert Burns Based on the previous year’s version or indeed every
version since he’d become president four years earlier, when he
lost his place, the old hands continued for him from memory.

The speech bridged the wit of
Burns and its spread across the Empire; painting a colourful
picture of Scotland's beloved Bard being accepted by all.

“To the immortal memory of Robert
Burns!” prompted cheers and applause.

The ‘Toast to the Lassies’ and
readings over the president, begged patience as he struggled to his
feet to thank everyone who had contributed to the evening and gave
leave for the tables to be cleared so the dancing could
commence.

The fiddler and pipes started up
a final time for ‘Auld Lang Syne’ belted out by all the guests
joining hands and singing as one, those who knew the tune and not
the words sang along in any old fashion.

Falstaff slipped his arm around
Zam’s waist and led her out to the lounge. Zam fell into a chair,
red faced and sleepy.

“John-di-di come here! Where are
you?”

Falstaff turned to stand by her
chair. “I’m here!”

“Oh, John-di-di! You sound so far
away! Why won’t you come sit with me?” Zam sang back loudly,
turning the heads passing guests.

“I’m ‘ulright, just sit still a
min.. a minute! Oh, I suppose my legs do need a litt’ rest before
d’ fun begins!” Falstaff slurred.

“Do you mean there’s more?” Zam
frowned. “But John-di-di it’s already late and we’re leaving the
hotel tomorrow! We’ve not even used your bed yet!”

“Just a bit of dancing. At least
say you’ll do one jig with me?”

“That’s what I’m talking about
you silly di-di!” Zam pouted.

Across the room Mrs. Anderson
heard.

“Well, if she doesn’t want a jig,
I’m game!” She muttered half under her breath.

Her husband beside her barely
acknowledged the comment.

“Yes, dear I’m just talking with
this gentleman about the news dear: Churchill apparently has made a
terrific speech, called those Nazis - criminal adventures! Do you
know dear if this does come to all-out war I’d have to go back to
England? What do you think? How would you manage without me
dear?”

“I manage well enough at the
moment!” Penny popped back drearily. She slid off her stool
scanning the room. Perhaps one of those young chaps who were
leaving for war might enjoy a send-off she schemed.

“I’ll see you later dear? I’ll
see what the dancing’s like? I fancy a jig, maybe fling as
well!”

The comment was lost on her
husband who resumed his conversation about the news.

“Apparently the Expeditionary
force has been put on full alert. News was that a German plane had
crash-landed in Belgium a few weeks ago? A German officer was
captured, carrying documents. Papers were hypothesising about
invasion of Belgium; they might be right, we British and the French
will be ready sure enough!”

The real Scots were already on
the dance floor, clapping, stomping about and stamping their feet.
Not pausing for a rest having charged their glasses they were
straight on the floor.

The pipers joined fiddlers, the
squeezebox and an old Indian gent on tom-toms, in the full rig of a
regimental sergeant major of the Scots Guards.

Falstaff looked at the old fakir.
“There’s something familiar about that screwy old devil, he reminds
me of someone?”

“Do you mean the old devil who
taught you to speak Sanskrit and Chinese so perfectly?”

“That’s the one! How did you
guess?”

“You always say ‘old devil’ when
you talk about him?” Zam smiled. “I’m feeling better now, let’s
dance?”

So bursting with zeal they
danced, joining the Scots so filled with emotion and drink, they
happily forgave those who didn’t know their left foot from the
right and those too drunk to care.

Those, who really had too much to
drink, were weeded out like the chaff from the wheat and fell or
made excuses about the angle of the dance floor and left.

Once warmed up the real highland
dancing started. A foursome Reel, once organised took on a
competitive edge. The groups joined together ready to dance
comprised of those struggling to recall the steps from their
previous attempt the year before; and those hardened practitioners
or with real regimental training.

The groups, formed into fours,
danced alternating between solo steps, then facing one another,
then followed by a figure-of-eight with intertwining loops, which
defeated the part-timers and prompted the band to laugh and quicken
the pace even more.

By now Zam had left the floor
clapping her hands, cheering when Falstaff staggered or
occasionally whirled artistically into view. She saw what men wore
under their kilts and laughed with the other women sitting out the
madness, pointing at their husbands ‘lanky wee legs’.

Falstaff and Zam left at the
first pause; the inevitable call for sword dance or ‘Ghillie
Callum’, as the Scots slurred. Fencing sabres produced from a
cupboard and were lined up on the floor in a neat crosses. The
remaining dancers proved without a doubt their lack of skill and
fell on each other or the swords, in turns.

The club’s Golf team captain
surpassed them all managing to complete at least eight bars of the
old tune ‘Ghillie Callum’ before kicking a sabre clean over the bar
into the kitchen behind.

“Twas the ‘ring kinda soord
ann’ee huu!” The captain commented, “Just be glad itwart a fir’
iron!”

“Ah!” Zam exclaimed. “Is that how
you play Khuru in Scotland?”

“Yes, I expect it is!” Falstaff
said, too tired to correct her.

Falstaff and Zam rose to find a
trap to take them back to the hotel. As they went through the doors
into the cold air, Zam remembered her hat and shawl and rushed back
inside leaving Falstaff to gulp the cool night air.

He started to pace slowly towards
the nearest trap when he noticed a slim figure smoking behind
it.

“You can’t have it, - that’s
spoken for!” Came a plummy voice. “My needs greater than yours! We
should have called you out, given you the damn white feathers! You
deserve it!” Quieten growled.

“I don’t care what you say. I’ve
got my hands full right now!” Falstaff was about to turn away, but
the boy continued.

“I’ve got myself a real woman you
know, better than yours...” Quieten suddenly cut short by a sharp
undercut, fell silently into the hedge.

Falstaff, rubbing his fist,
called to Zam as she came out of the club. “There’s a trap free
right here!”

Shortly, with both aboard the
trap, just as it started to roll away, as Mrs. Anderson came out of
the club. She lit a cigarette and looked up and down
impatiently.

Hearing a groan she approached
the hedge beside the foyer window, Quieten was struggling to his
feet rubbing his jaw, he fell flat on his face at her feet.

“God, another one who can’t
handle his drink!” She looked away in disgust and then saw Falstaff
grinning from the back of his trap.

She clicked her lighter, which
burst into flame with a snap. “Oh, one day! Falstaff, one day.”

Police Headquarters, Bangladesh

Deputy Inspector General
Wititterly shook his head and shut the door off his office; he
hoped for the last time. He blew out his breath, held in
exasperation. Having spent most of the day and the previous morning
with the gentlemen he had just seen out. He turned to his desk and
dropped into the chair behind it.

“Good God! He’s a good man but
blathers too much! Too damn serious about his work!”

He turned to the cabinet behind
his desk and poured himself a large Gin and Tonic.

“Damn foreign office types!” He
looked down at the Letter of introduction from the
Commander-in-Chief, India and the Far East Command under Air
Marshal Robert Brooke-Popham at Singapore, part of Far East
Command. Donald, Commander Quittenton-Godfrey, RN.

Donald had appeared yesterday,
requesting information, auditing their offices as part of a general
review of intelligence services.

The Deputy Inspector knew
nothing, had nothing to say on the matter and had referred Donald
up the chain of command. Unfortunately, his Chief Inspector had
taken a similar attitude to Donald and sent him straight back to
him. Regulations, for monitoring foreigners or checking travel
documents, were well documented, what else did he want to know? He
didn’t even know of any intelligence officer’s, Far East Command or
Colonial Office?

Donald was part of the Royal Navy
intelligence office, part of the small Far East team to enable the
Commander-in-Chief, Far East, to carry out his functions. The Chief
was allowed limited staff consisting of seven officers drawn from
all three Services, plus a few additional clerical and cipher
staff. This small number of officers was never enough. Considering
the distances involved, the length of the borders involved it was
pitiful. At Singapore, Donald had been drafted in to ease the load
and to make a stab at the increasing pressure to review the
intelligence situation in India and the Far East.