Under the Jeweled Sky (26 page)

“There should be some in the bathroom cabinet. Would you like me to fetch them for you?”

“No.” Dr. Schofield stifled a small belch. “I'm sure I can find them.” He stood up. “Would you mind if I stepped out for a few minutes?”

“Not at all.” Lucien poured himself a drink.

“I think I might catch a few breaths of fresh air and stretch my legs. Just for a moment or two. See if I can shift this stitch.”

“By all means. Take your time, but don't leave the compound.”

• • •

Dr. Schofield stood out on the porch and lit a cigarette before pulling his collar up against the chill and descending the few steps to the pathway. His gullet was burning. He should have been more careful, or steered away from the champagne, which clearly wasn't as good as its label purported. Damned stuff. Enjoyable enough at the time, but a wicked mistress when it came to paying the bill for her company. He passed through the gate and on to the road, strolling a few paces, enjoying his cigarette. There was a light on in the guardhouse. He wandered toward it and looked through the sliding window, but there was no one home, the hut empty. A few yards ahead, a thin shaft of brightness fell from a flashlight. The guard walked toward him.

“Sahib?” Veneet quickened his pace. “Are you needing something?”

“Sorry,” Dr. Schofield said, feeling suddenly awkward at having been caught poking his nose into the guardhouse. “I was just stretching my legs for a while.”

“It's cold tonight,” Veneet said.

“Yes, it is rather.” Dr. Schofield looked around uncertainly.

“Everything is well, sahib. We are here all night when everyone is sleeping.”

“Lucky for us.”

“Did you have an enjoyable party this evening, sahib?”

“Yes. Yes, we did.”

“It is a very good Christian festival, along with your Easter. A very good festival.”

“Yes. Well. We like it.”

“But I think it would be better if you had more fireworks, sahib.” Veneet nodded to himself in firm agreement. “All festivals are much better with fireworks, but I think perhaps you are not having sufficient fireworks in United Kingdom in matters of the Christmas and the so forth.”

“No.” Dr. Schofield nodded politely. “I think you are probably right about that.”

“You are smoking an American cigarette?”

“Er,” Dr. Schofield looked down at his hand, “American? I'm not sure. Player's. Are they American?”

“Player's cigarettes very fine. I like Player's cigarettes.” Veneet hovered expectantly.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” George took the packet from his pocket. “Would you care to…” Veneet helped himself to three and put them in his pocket.

“You want some chai?” Veneet gestured toward the open doorway of the guardhouse, a pot stewing on the stove. Dr. Schofield thought about it for a moment.

“Yes. Why not?” He stepped inside. “I'm not disturbing you from your work, am I?”

“No, sahib. We are taking turns walking up and down and seeing that everything is fine and there is no trouble or undesirable persons hanging around.”

Veneet took two clay cups from the table and poured some chai into each one. Dr. Schofield hesitated for a moment, seeing that the cup had been used before and not washed. Ah well, he thought. When in Rome. He sipped at it, hot, sweet, and milky, cinnamon tanging on his tongue.

“You are staying at number four?”

“Yes. My daughter lives there.”

“You are father of Mrs. Grainger?”

“Yes.”

“That is very good.” Veneet drank some of his tea and felt pleased with himself. Perhaps they were not all so bad, these Britishers. This one at least seemed to know that he was no better than him and had given him American cigarettes. The ones in the houses were a different matter. It wasn't that they looked down their noses. They didn't look at all, passing the gatehouse day in, day out without so much as a good morning or a good evening or a thank you for being outside all night freezing your balls off. He would like to live in a house like that and to come home drunk from parties at two o'clock in the morning and not care about who kept it clean or made it safe. And if he did have a house like that and came home in the middle of the night drunk, he too might go for a little walk and smoke an American cigarette and have a little chat with the
chowkidar
, just to show that he was not snobbish. He might even give him a tip, a little something to show his appreciation for the fellow freezing his balls off. Perhaps this man was going to give him a tip; after all, it was his Christian festival, and everybody knew that the English
wallahs
gave tips at Christmas festival. “Are you enjoying your chai, sahib?”

“Very good,” said Dr. Schofield, finishing, careful not to drain the dregs that had loosened whatever it was that had stuck to the bottom of the cup. Footsteps approached the hut. Dr. Schofield put the cup on the table. “Well, I shall wish you good night and leave you to your post.”

Veneet clicked his heels together and nodded, standing straight, his eyes following the hands that failed to offer him a tip as Dr. Schofield walked out of the door.

Dr. Schofield collided with the man before he had even seen him, feeling himself knocked sideways as solidly as if he had marched into a tree. Strong arms steadied him at the shoulder.

“Sahib!” Jagaan stepped back to check the man over. Thank the gods he hadn't been walking any faster; otherwise he might have knocked him clean over.

“I'm so sorry.” Dr. Schofield fumbled around, righting his spectacles. “My fault entirely. I didn't even think to look where I was going.”

“You are fine, sahib?” The moment the man lifted his face, Jagaan felt the wind ripped from his chest. He turned quickly away, his voice thick as he said to Veneet, “Please escort the sahib to his door and make sure that he is all right.”

Veneet looked at him indignantly. “Me? Why don't you…” but Jagaan had already disappeared into the darkness. Veneet tutted to himself, then readied a smile for Dr. Schofield. If he took him home, he would definitely and certainly be bound to get a tip. “Come, sahib. If you feel unsteady along the way, take my arm. In fact, take my arm anyway, then we can be doubly sure.”

“Really, I'm quite all right,” Dr. Schofield said, realizing that his heartburn seemed to have gone off miraculously, wondering if it might be something to do with the tea he had just had. Ginger, perhaps. It had tasted like it had ginger root in it, and something else, something that was nagging at the back of his mind, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on, like a distant memory. A few yards further, Dr. Schofield slowed. A fractured image came into his mind's eye, a face he had once known, but he couldn't think from where. He stopped and turned around abruptly, looking back toward the guardhouse, a faint glimmer of recollection tugging at him deep down somewhere.

“Sahib? You are all right?”

“Yes,” Dr. Schofield said with a frown. “That man at the gatehouse, the other guard…”

“Yes, sahib. He will be in very big trouble for banging into you like that. I will see to it that he is given a talking-to. In fact,” Veneet puffed himself up, “I will speak to him myself, as his superior.”

“No. Don't do that. It really wasn't his fault. I just thought for a moment…” He brought his hand to his chin, unable to piece together whatever it was that had flashed through his thoughts for a second. That guard he had glimpsed for a fleeting instant. Something about that face. Those
eyes
… Unable to place it, he frowned to himself, shrugged it off, and continued back to the house.

Dr. Schofield came to the breakfast table suited in his traveling clothes, a comfortable ensemble of linens that had softened over the years and a cotton shirt of a similar ochre hue, open at the collar, with a red kerchief tied at his neck. Sophie looked at him for a moment, as though seeing him differently, before realizing.

“What happened to your mustache?”

“Better?” He smiled self-consciously, his hand coming to his denuded face. “John offered to shave me this morning, so I thought I'd have it off. I'd forgotten what I looked like without it.”

“I rather liked it.” Sophie, entirely wrong-footed at the sight of him, poured him a coffee as he sat down. She glanced at him again. It was as though the clock had been turned back to a different time and a different breakfast table, where nobody spoke and you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

“Good morning, George.” Lucien strode in. “Darling, have you seen my wallet?” He glanced briefly at Dr. Schofield. “I've gone and put it down somewhere.” Sophie was already out of her seat.

“I'll go and find it for you.”

“Coffee?” Dr. Schofield picked up the pot.

“I don't really have time, George.”

“Of course you do.” Dr. Schofield poured anyway. “Sit down for a moment while Sophie fetches your wallet.” Lucien accepted the cup reluctantly. “Busy day ahead?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Schofield took a sip of his coffee. “I hope the visit goes well. You must ask Sophie to let me know.”

“Thanks. It'll be all over the newspapers.”

“I'll look out for you in the photographs.”

Sophie came in holding Lucien's wallet. “Here you are.” She smiled at him. “It was in your other jacket.”

“Thanks, darling.” He kissed her cheek. “Right. Well, I'd better be off then.” Dr. Schofield stood up. “George?” Lucien shook his hand. “It's been an absolute pleasure. Thank you so much for taking the trouble to come and see us. I hope your journey back isn't too arduous, and you must call and let us know that you've arrived safely. Do you have everything you need for your trip?”

“Yes, thank you.” He felt the firm grip of Lucien's hand. “It's been a wonderful visit, although I have to say that you have ruined me with your fine whiskies. Now I shall have to go home and reduce myself to the ordinariness of my Black Label.”

“Until next time,” Lucien said, tucking his wallet into his pocket and heading for the door. A silence hung over the room for a while. Sophie returned to her seat.

“Did you see that?” she said. “He didn't notice a thing.” Her father looked at her. “Your mustache. Perhaps if you had dyed it pink… Oh well. Will you have some breakfast?”

“I've already beaten you to it. I was up at six while you two were still fast asleep. Dilip made me some eggs. He's a good lad. I think I gave him the fright of his life, wandering into the kitchen to help myself like that. I didn't see him. He was dozing in the corner. Almost jumped out of his skin.” He sat back down. “I'm happy to see you settled, my dear. Lucien seems like a decent chap. I'm sure you've chosen well.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Sophie reached across the table and put her hand on his. “I'm so glad you were able to come. It meant a lot to us.”

Dilip came into the dining room, slipped the cap from his head and put a small package on the table, tied neatly in greaseproof paper.

“Your picnic, Dr. George,” he said.

“Ah, Dilip! Thank you. That should sustain me nicely through the inevitable delays.” He stood up and shook Dilip's hand, Dilip smiling with embarrassment. “Now you mind you take good care of Mrs. Grainger while I'm gone, and see to it that she eats a decent breakfast once in a while.”

“Yes, Dr. George.” Dilip slid a bashful smile to Sophie and went back to his kitchen.

“A decent roast chicken sandwich.” Dr. Schofield waved the package aloft. “A picnic fit for a king.”

“Are you sure you don't want me to come to the airport with you?”

“Gracious, no. You know how hopeless I am at good-byes. All that hanging around and not knowing what to say. No. You stay here and get on with your day, while I forge ahead into the great unwashed.”

“Memsahib?” John came in, the new bearer, who had worked out very well. “The car is ready. I have put the doctor's bag inside.”

“Thank you, John.” Dr. Schofield smiled brightly. “So! I'm guessing that's my cue to be on my way.” He hugged his daughter, closing his eyes briefly, wishing that he could say something to her to reassure her that everything would be all right. He had seen that all was not well with her. There had been a moment when the awful thought had crossed his mind that perhaps she had inherited a predisposition toward nerves from her mother. It had shocked him, that he should even consider such a terrible thing, and he had quickly brushed it aside. Yet not once had he heard her laugh like she used to when she found something terribly funny, like the time in Ooty when Poocha wasn't much more than a kitten. He had lost his footing and fallen into the pond while going after one of the house martin chicks. He had struggled furiously to clamber out, a wide-eyed look of horrified indignation on his face as the house martin parents dive-bombed him mercilessly, a bedraggled feline wretch, drenched to the skin. Sophie had been beside herself, laughing so hard that she had tears streaming down her face. The noise of it had brought them all running from the house, and they had laughed madly at the sight of her bent double, holding her sides. It was the first time any of them had heard her laugh for months.

“You may walk me to the car.” Dr. Schofield offered Sophie his arm. “But no nonsense, all right?” He smiled at her bravely. “You'll only go and set me off.”

• • •

Sophie hadn't meant to cry, especially not in front of a neighbor, but Tessa had taken one look at her and asked her immediately whatever the matter was. Sophie had only called in to say a brief hello, perhaps to stay and have a cup of coffee and talk herself back into normality. She would have been all right had Tessa not been so nice to her. Kindness is the hardest thing to bear when one is feeling low.