Читать книгу: «The Eye of the Horse», страница 3

Govind had come to England to study, encouraged by Harold Chadwick, his English teacher back in India. He enrolled at London University to do a degree in law. He was urged to be someone; do something for his newly-independent country. But all these plans had been interrupted by the war. He had joined up along with all his fellow students and fought in Europe and North Africa.

So where was that hero now? Where was the soldier-scholar, whose garlanded image Jaspal had grown up with and admired every day? Where was the Sikh warrior, who had gone into the British army to help fight against the Nazis? When the war ended, and Govind didn’t come home, they never for a moment disbelieved his letters, which told them first, that he had been wounded and was undergoing treatment, and then, that he was trying to earn enough money in Britain, so that he could return to India and set up a business.

Jaspal remembered how his mother, Jhoti, had fretted. ‘Why doesn’t he come home? We need him here. We need him as a father to protect his family. Doesn’t he know what is happening here?’

Surely Govind must have heard. The whole world knew that Britain had finally granted India the right to independence. But even before the British left, the troubles began. When part of India split away to become Pakistan, in the vast interchange of populations from one country to another, thousands were slaughtered. And in the Punjab, the Sikhs, who were neither Hindu nor Muslim, fought for their own identity – and some, for their own homeland too. How could Govind not know? Why did he not return to protect his family?

But what did Govind, their father, know of all this? It was ten years since he had left India, and it was as though he had never belonged there, never had a family there, no parents, brothers or sisters, no wife and two young children.

By the time he married Maeve O’Grady, he was another person altogether. He never talked about India to her; never told her about his other wife and children; and the more time went by, the less reason he saw to confess – especially after Beryl was born.

Then Jaspal and Marvinder turned up on his doorstep in England and, like a thrust of the wheel, his whole world revolved and his past life confronted him.

At first, Jaspal couldn’t believe this was his father. He had no beard, no turban. He wasn’t a scholar or a warrior, or anyone he could be proud of. Worst of all, Govind had betrayed them all; Jaspal, Marvinder and their mother, Jhoti.

Then they found out he was part of a criminal gang.

Bitterly, all Jaspal could hear was Mr O’Grady’s words ringing in his ears, ‘He’s nothing but a spiv; a black-marketeer; a petty crook.’

‘But he did save a man from the fire,’ Jaspal had pleaded. ‘The newspapers said he was a hero.’

‘Just as well,’ Mr O’Grady had snorted. ‘Otherwise he would have gone to the gallows for murder.’

For that heroic act, they hoped his other crimes would be overlooked, but it was not to be. The wheels of justice turned, and Govind was convicted for black-marketeering.

‘It’s good that Ma never knew what Pa did in England,’ Marvinder had whispered when their father was taken off to prison.

Govind held out his hands greedily, eager to clasp each one. Jaspal avoided his father’s gaze and pulled away from Govind’s grip as soon as he could. He flopped down in a chair, and turned it sideways on, looking deliberately bored.

Marvinder pulled her chair closer, but sat with lowered eyes. No matter what Govind had done, she couldn’t hate him, and she wished she had magic powers, so that she could free him from his prison. She often imagined how she would help him to escape and they would all run away back to India. Then they would find her mother, Jhoti, and everything would be all right.

‘How are you doing for money?’ Govind asked Maeve. They sat facing each other across the table. They didn’t touch; each kept their hands clasped together in front of them.

‘We’re managing,’ she replied sullenly. ‘I’ve got a job at Franklands Engineering. Gives me about fifteen bob a week; a pound, with overtime. Between Mum, Dad and the boys, we get by. We get Family Allowance too. They’ve agreed to give it for Jaspal and Marvinder, as well as for Beryl, and I’ve got ration books for them now. That friend of yours, Mr Chadwick, he found out about it all for us.’

‘That’s good.’ Govind sighed with relief. ‘How’s Beryl?’

‘She’s fine.’ Maeve fingered her wedding ring so that she didn’t have to look at her husband. ‘The children bring home these American food parcels from school. That helps,’ she murmured.

Govind waited for more news of their child, but Maeve fell silent and went on twisting her ring round and round.

‘I’ve got something for her.’ Govind reached down to a brown paper bag at his feet and pulled out a stuffed elephant.

‘That’s nice!’ Marvinder exclaimed with enthusiasm. It was patchworked together from different bits of material and stuffed. ‘Isn’t it nice, Maeve?’

‘I made it in the workshops,’ Govind said with weary pride. ‘I’m halfway through a camel. It’ll be ready next time you come. But I hope Beryl will like the elephant.’ He stood it on the table for them to admire.

‘It’s lovely, isn’t it, Maeve!’ Marvinder persisted. ‘Course Beryl will like it, won’t she?’

Maeve nodded, giving it a cursory glance, but made no move to examine it. Marvinder picked it up. ‘Look, bhai! ’ She showed the elephant to Jaspal. ‘Isn’t Pa clever to make this?’

‘Why did you make an elephant?’ queried Jaspal in a cold voice. ‘They don’t have elephants here or camels, except in zoos. You should have made a dog or a cat.’

‘Shall I make you a dog or a cat?’ asked Govind, trying to please.

Jaspal almost snorted with derision. ‘Stuffed toys are for babies! Billy’s father makes boats. He sails them in the park. He might let me make one,’ added Jaspal cruelly.

‘Who’s Billy?’ asked Govind quietly.

‘My best friend,’ said Jaspal. ‘His dad might give me a job later in his workshop. He said I had all the makings of a carpenter. I can still remember everything old uncle taught me back in India.’

‘Who was your best friend in India? You used to write to me about him. The son of that Muslim tailor, Khan, wasn’t he?’

‘Nazakhat,’ said Marvinder, when she saw Jaspal purse his lips tightly. ‘Nazakhat and the Khans saved our lives. Without their help we would have been killed . . .’ Her voice trembled as she remembered.

‘Perhaps you should never have left Deri,’ murmured Govind. ‘Perhaps you should have stayed and taken your chances. Your friends, the Khans may have continued to protect you.’

‘They’re all dead,’ stated Jaspal, flatly.

‘Oh, Jaspal, how can you say that?’ protested Marvinder. ‘We don’t know anything for sure.’

‘I’ve read all about it in the papers. Millions have died, especially in the Punjab. Nazakhat must be dead. Ma, too. We would be dead if we’d stayed.’ His voice was cold and emotionless. There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Govind changed the subject. ‘Maeve says you’re going to be sitting the eleven-plus. You could go to grammar school and maybe to university.’ Govind leaned forward earnestly. ‘You could do what I was meant to do, if you study hard.’

‘Huh!’ Jaspal snorted again and turned away, no longer interested in communicating with his father.

‘What do you want to go putting ideas into his head like that for?’ Maeve reproached him in a shrill voice. ‘We’re short enough of money as it is, what with you in here. The sooner he’s out earning, the better – and her!’ She indicated Marvinder. ‘That Dr Silbermann’s giving her ideas too, what with all this violin playing. I don’t think it’s healthy, all the time she spends down there.’

Govind looked at his daughter and sighed. In India, he would have been negotiating her dowry and arranging a marriage for her. She was exactly the same as Jhoti, her mother, when he married her.

‘Perhaps when I get out, I’ll take Marvi back to India and get her marriage arranged. That would be the best.’ He spoke with the sudden enthusiasm of a good idea.

‘No, Pa, no!’ Marvinder stared at her father in horror.

‘I thought you wanted to go back.’ He frowned.

‘I do, I do. But I want to go back with you and Jaspal. I want to go home. I want to find out about Ma. I don’t want to get married. No one here gets married so young.’ Tears welled up in her eyes at the thought.

Maeve shrugged. ‘Come off it, Govind, she’s only thirteen, and she hasn’t even started her monthlies. I was thinking maybe she could do a paper round.’

‘I’d like a horse,’ said Jhoti inside Marvinder’s head. ‘A bridegroom’s horse, all decorated and ribboned.’

‘Could you make a horse?’ Marvinder asked her father, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘I’d like a horse.’

‘Of course,’ replied Govind. ‘I’ll make one for you by the next time you come. It doesn’t take long.’

SIX
Who Will You Marry?

Marriage. The word; the thought of it, threw Marvinder into a state of dark imaginings. On the way home from prison, she left Jaspal alone at the front of the bus and joined Maeve at the back. She wanted to talk to her about it. But Maeve wasn’t in the mood; she puffed on her cigarette, enveloping them both in a haze of blue smoke, and stared out of the dirt-streaked window. She looked shut away into her own thoughts and unwilling to be drawn out.

For a while, they just sat there in silence, occasionally lurching up against each other as the bus bumped or turned a corner.

Marvinder glanced up at her. She wanted to run a finger over that smooth, white skin, to know whether white skin felt the same as brown skin. Or was it cooler? More delicate? Would her brown finger bruise it in some way? Leave a mark or a smudge? She tried to slip her hand in Maeve’s, which rested, ungloved on her lap. Maeve looked down at her, surprised, her green eyes looking as lost as pebbles falling through water.

‘Maeve! Do you think my pa will make me marry?’ Marvinder asked timidly.

Maeve drew her hand away and replaced her glove. ‘How should I know,’ she murmured vaguely. ‘I suppose you lot have your own customs. But I wouldn’t let no daughter of mine get married off while she’s still a child. It’s not right.’

‘What did you mean about not having started my monthlies?’ asked Marvinder.

‘Oh . . .’ Maeve looked embarrassed. ‘You’ll find out in due course. I expect me mum’ll tell you,’ and she turned her face away to look out of the window once more.

That night, Marvinder tried to speak to Jhoti about it. But like dreams, Jhoti had her own timing, and could not be summoned up at will.

‘Is it as bad as all that?’ asked Dr Silbermann, her friend in the basement below.

Marvinder went down with her violin almost every day after school. Down to a dim, dusty netherworld, smelling of glue and varnish. It was a planet made entirely of paper. Sheets of music, newspapers, clippings, and magazines covered every possible surface. They spread out, layer upon layer across the floor, or were piled into strange organic-like structures which always seemed about to topple over. There were books rising precariously in tall higgledy-piggledy towers, balanced along the mantelpiece like the distant skyline of some foreign city. The few bits of furniture that he owned – a bed, table, a chest of drawers, a couple of buried armchairs and his old grand piano, seemed only to be there to provide a surface for more books and music.

If anyone came to call, he would sweep a pile of papers to the floor revealing a battered armchair with its stuffing hanging out. Here, in a flurry of dust, his visitor would sit down.

Marvinder never saw him eat. His small gas cooker was always covered in tins of varnish and glue, and his sink never seemed free from jam jars stuffed with brushes, soaking in methylated spirits.

Above the sink hung a row of glistening violins in all shades of yellows and reds and golden browns, drying, after they had been freshly varnished and restored by him. He called them his children, and Marvinder knew that they were all he had left to love, since his own children had perished in the Nazi concentration camps.

But each day when she called, he would study her face, and know her mood and, today, he saw it was solemn and thoughtful. He looked kindly into her eyes and tweaked her chin. ‘So? Has Chicken Licken heard that the sky’s falling down?’ he chuckled.

Marvinder laughed then nearly cried. She hastily took out her violin and began tuning it. When she had recovered herself a bit, she said, ‘Do you think I’ll be ready for my exam next summer?’

But what she was really saying inside herself was, ‘My pa is thinking of taking me back to India to get me married. I don’t want to get married. Mrs O’Grady says he won’t make me. She said they’d all be against it. But if Pa says I must . . . I’ll have to . . .’

‘Of course you’ll be ready. Why, you’d be ready next month if it were necessary,’ Dr Silbermann replied reassuringly. ‘You’re not worrying about it, are you?’

‘No, not really!’

‘You’re getting on like a house on fire,’ smiled Dr Silbermann. ‘By the time you’ve played in the festival and given the Chadwicks a recital, you’ll be truly good and ready.’

‘I was married at your age,’ murmured Jhoti, from inside her daughter’s head. ‘We all have to in the end.’

‘Why?’ asked Marvinder silently.

‘Because you do. That’s what life is about.’ Her mother sighed. ‘It’s our duty.’

‘Were you happy?’

‘Happy? Ah . . .’ Her mother faded.

Dr Silbermann sat down at the piano and began to play the introduction of ‘La Paloma’. The sun streamed through the low bay window, creating a cosmos of molecules, where millions of specks of dust floated like planets, and the old Doctor of Music himself seemed to disintegrate in the shafts of light.

The notes from the piano rocked like a boat. Marvinder made her entry, her bow lightly bobbing across the strings, short and long, breathing out the phrases like a human voice singing.

‘I always think of the blue waters of the Mediterranean, when I hear this piece. I had never seen the sea before I went to Barcelona,’ Dr Silbermann said dreamily, as they came to the end.

‘Where’s Barcelona?’ asked Marvinder.

‘It’s in Spain, where the sun always shines. I went there once as a young man before the war. I gave a recital in a concert hall just off the main square. It was wonderful. We were so young and so hopeful. We thought music was the universal language. That all we had to do was play, and everyone would understand. We believed that music was the answer to all the ills of the world and that Barcelona was the most beautiful city in the universe. We were foolish. We thought that Beauty was Truth and Truth was Beauty.’ He sighed at the memory. ‘Perhaps one day, you’ll go to Spain.’

‘And give a recital?’ asked Marvinder.

‘Why not?’ Dr Silbermann smiled brightly. Then, as he turned back to the keyboard, he played a soft chord and murmured again, ‘Why not?’

When, later on upstairs over tea, Marvinder talked about going to Spain to give a concert, Michael and Patrick roared with laughter, and Mr O’Grady frowned disapprovingly.

‘What’s so funny?’ Marvinder protested, blushing uncomfortably. ‘Dr Silbermann says I might. He should know.’

‘Dr Silbermann’s soft in the head. It’s the war what done it, and him losing all his family like that. Poor sod. I’m not blaming him, but you shouldn’t go getting any fancy ideas, my girl,’ said Mrs O’Grady.

‘I think you should stop her going down there,’ declared Mr O’Grady. ‘It’s bad for her.’

‘Yeah, Dad’s right,’ agreed Michael. ‘All this caterwauling she does. Where’s it going to get her?’

Marvinder was outraged. The blood rushed angrily to her cheeks. Caterwauling? No one had ever referred to her violin-playing like that before.

‘Hey!’ Patrick teased her raucously. ‘No need to go to Spain and upset the bulls, Marvinder. You’d get an appreciative audience down in the churchyard with all them cats.’

‘Or how about the pub on a Saturday night? But none of that classical stuff, mind. You’d have to learn some Irish airs,’ yelled Michael gleefully. ‘I’ll teach you “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”,’ and he broke into the song with great panache.

‘Fancy playing in the pub, Marvi?’ yelled Patrick, slapping his brother on the back with the enjoyment of ganging up on Marvinder. ‘Play us some jigs we can dance to!’

Marvinder got to her feet, with outraged tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I hate you, Patrick O’Grady, and you too, Michael,’ she shouted.

‘Hey, hey! Settle down, all of you,’ bellowed Mrs O’Grady above the hubbub. ‘Stop that silly nonsense, boys. Come on, Marvinder. They were only teasing. You know what boys are. You play like an angel. We all know that. Sit down, there’s a good girl.’

Marvinder subsided back into her place, rubbing her nose along her sleeve and hiccuping with emotion. Kathleen leaned into her and patted her gently.

‘Take no notice, Marvi. You know they’re just stupid. All boys are stupid.’

‘Who are you going to marry when you grow up?’ Marvinder whispered in the darkness as, that night, she and Kathleen lay side by side in the bed they had to share.

Kathleen giggled softly. ‘How should I know?’

‘Don’t your mum and dad have a boy in mind for you?’

‘Course not! Anyway, I don’t think I want to marry.’

‘Why not?’ cried Marvinder.

‘It’s too much work. All those babies and things. Look at Mum. Look how hard she has to work; all that scrubbing and cleaning and washing and cooking. I don’t want to do that.’

‘Maeve’s only got one child. She doesn’t work so hard,’ remarked Marvinder.

‘Yeah, I know. Father Macnally’s always telling her off. He thinks she should have more by now. “It’s your Catholic duty to have babies for Jesus,” ’ mimicked Kathleen. ‘It would be just my luck to marry a man who gave me thirteen children like Mrs Hannagan. Can you imagine looking after thirteen children?’

‘I thought you might marry Tommy Henderson. He likes you lots,’ grinned Marvinder. ‘You like him too, don’t you?’

Kathleen blushed bright red. ‘Don’t be bloody daft. Anyhow, he’s a Protestant. How about you? Who will you marry?’

‘No one,’ stated Marvinder categorically. ‘No one. I’d hate to be married.’

Yet inside her, she knew the opposite was true. Only a few days ago, they had gone to the cinema to see the new Walt Disney film, Snow White. She thought it was the most beautiful, frightening and wonderful thing she had ever seen. When she had come out, blinking into the daylight, she felt she was Snow White. She understood Snow White’s sadness at having lost her mother and how cruel it was to be hated and rejected by her stepmother; and how her father didn’t seem to notice or care or try to defend her. Snow White longed to be loved and to have a home and happiness. Marvinder learned all the songs and sang them at school, while they waited in the dinner line. ‘Some day my prince will come . . .’

‘No one? Never?’ asked Kathleen, pressing her.

‘Well, maybe . . . someday,’ said Marvinder.

SEVEN
To the Borders of Death

It is sometimes hard to believe that the sun which rises up and up like a blazing chariot into a vast, blue Indian sky, is the same pale sun, which seeps weakly through the hard, grey canopy of a sky in England; where its very scarcity gives the sun a value, and its fragility induces a sense of wonder.

It is even more difficult to realise that the Thames, which flows so broad and busy past Battersea, flanked by warehouses and walls and embankments, is the same river which starts life in a Gloucestershire field. The source bubbles fretfully up through the mole-humped grass, somewhere behind a pub called the Thames Head, and homes ambitiously across water meadows to become a stream. Then, after meandering amiably between marshy banks, trailing with willow, its reeds haunted by water rats and coots and piping moorhens, it gains in strength and power, until, by the time it leaves Lechlade, it is swiftly flowing like an unbridled horse, wandering wherever it wills: eastwards, and northwards, then doing a complete loop and dropping down southwards to Oxford, no sooner going this way, than it turns and goes that way; past Abingdon, Maidenhead, Windsor and Richmond, finally heading for London, and beyond London, to the sea.

‘I think that the River Thames joins up with the Ganges in India.’

Edith Chadwick was standing in the bay window of the living room, staring out at the river which they could see from their house in Richmond.

‘Good heavens, Edith! How do you reach that conclusion?’ exclaimed her mother with uneasy amusement.

‘Well, the Thames flows out into the English Channel at Gravesend, and its waters become part of the sea. The Thames water could get swept round in the currents into the Atlantic and on into the Bay of Biscay and the Mediterranean. From there it joins the Suez canal and flows out into the Indian Ocean; and then . . .’ she moved her finger in the air as if along a map, ‘it meets up with the rivers of India which have been pouring down into the sea from the Himalayas, and they all become one. Aren’t I right?’ she challenged.

Dora laughed; it was a nervous high-pitched peal of laughter which sounded as though it could fragment into tears. ‘Oh, Edith! You are a funny girl.’ She tried to hug her daughter, but as usual, Edith’s body went rigid as her mother’s arms encircled her, and she pulled away.

‘You see, Harold!’ Dora cried desperately. ‘She doesn’t love me. My own daughter doesn’t love me. Indeed, she hates me. I know she does.’

‘No, Dora, stop!’ cried Harold, desperately trying to deflect his wife from another outburst of this sort. But hysteria overcame her with such suddenness these days, that he and Edith were left helpless.

‘And why? Why?’ Dora’s voice rose with emotion. ‘What have I ever done to you, Edith?’ She turned to her pleadingly. ‘Why do you treat me like your enemy? We used to be so close, you and I, until the twins were born. I know you hated Ralph and Grace, didn’t you? Did you think we stopped loving you then? But they’re dead now, and there’s only you, and I don’t blame you for their death. It’s my fault and only mine, so why do you hate me now? Why can’t you tell me, so that I can put it right?’ She was sobbing pitifully. Great, heaving sounds wrenched through her body.

Edith backed away, her face expressionless. She turned to look out of the window where the sun glinted on the slow-moving body of the Thames. She wondered if she could carry on with the link she had made, so that the waters of the Thames somehow joined with the waters of that lake in the Punjab, where the twins had drowned. Perhaps even as she looked, their souls were floating by, and their voices calling out to her, ‘Edie! Edie, wait for us!’

Harold came swiftly, and putting his arms round his wife, led her away to their bedroom. He gave her a sedative and sat with her till she calmed down and finally slept.

‘Oh, God!’ he whispered fiercely, as he caught a glimpse of his grey, anguished face in the dressing-table mirror. ‘What has happened to us?’

Would they ever be a family again?

When he returned to the living room, Edith had barely moved from her position in the window. He stood next to her. He didn’t touch her but, like her, looked out at the hard leaden surface of the river as it curved away. The variety of its moods and character never failed to fascinate; sometimes slowly moving, blue and benign, sometimes choppy and turbulent, sometimes just powerful and swiftly flowing. Today it looked indifferent.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he murmured. ‘I’d never thought of the Thames linking up with the Ganges, but it’s a lovely idea. It makes me feel hopeful. I always did believe that we all belonged to each other in this world; that what happens in one part of the globe matters to the other parts.’ He glanced sideways down at his daughter’s face. Her dark, corn-coloured hair fell like a curtain, barely revealing the profile of her pale, high forehead and strong, straight nose. Her lips, though full and generous, were pursed tight, puckering her cheeks as she gazed impassively out of the window. She could have been made of stone. It was as though she had absented her body. Gone away. They had lost their twins, and it was as if they had lost Edith too. What could he do to bring her back? What would make her laugh again?

Unexpectedly, Edith asked, ‘When are we going to see Jaspal and Marvinder again?’ Harold reacted as joyfully as if she had hugged him. Of course, Jaspal and Marvinder! It was time they saw them again. Edith had always laughed a lot when she was with Marvinder.

‘Whenever you like. Shall we ask Marvinder over for the day?’ Harold cried eagerly. ‘How about next Saturday?’

‘Yes, but Jaspal must come too,’ said Edith firmly.

‘We’ll play hide and seek,’ announced Edith.

Jaspal and Marvinder stood silently side by side in the gloom of the second floor, where Edith’s bedroom and playroom were.

They felt awkward and shabby and wished they weren’t there. Mr Chadwick had called in at Whitworth Road after work one evening to invite them over to Richmond. Mrs O’Grady had been out pushing Beryl’s old black pram round the streets, delivering laundry to her customers. If only she had been home when Mr Chadwick called, she might not have let this happen. She was suspicious of the Chadwicks. They belonged to a different class and a different world. They knew about Govind’s past life in India, and it made her feel uneasy. She didn’t want them interfering in their lives.

But only Maeve was home and, since she didn’t care one way or the other, Maeve immediately agreed to Jaspal and Marvinder visiting the Chadwicks the following Saturday. Jaspal was furious. It meant missing Flash Gordon at the Saturday morning pictures. It was the highlight of his week, and then, afterwards, roaming round the streets with the gang, or train-spotting with Billy. When Harold Chadwick left, he raged at Maeve and declared that nothing would make him go. It would be boring being with girls – and especially that toffee-nosed Edith.

But when Mrs O’Grady came home, she said, ‘Well, what’s done’s done. You’ll have to go now, so you might as well stop fussing and make the best of it.’

Harold Chadwick and Edith were waiting at Richmond station to meet them. Harold welcomed them with jovial words, but Edith looked pale and restrained. It was raining hard, so Mr Chadwick had brought the car. They would have driven in silence, had not Mr Chadwick asked lots of questions such as, ‘How is school?’ ‘Are the O’Gradys in good health?’ and ‘I’m so sorry it’s raining, and we can’t go boating. Oh well, there’ll be plenty more opportunities . . .’

When they arrived at the house, Mr Chadwick called out to his wife as he opened the front door. ‘Hello, darling! Dora! They’re here!’ There was no answer. ‘I wonder where your mother is . . .’ murmured Mr Chadwick. Edith shrugged. Everyone seemed awkward. Mr Chadwick took their coats and hung them up on a coatstand near the door.

Jaspal and Marvinder looked around, closely observing everything.

‘It’s more like a church than a house,’ whispered Jaspal, looking at the black and white tiled floor in the hall passage, and the stained glass of deep reds, greens and yellows of the front door and the landing windows.

They went into the living-room. It was a living-room and nothing but a living-room, with sofas and armchairs and cushions and rugs, and pretty little coffee tables and a vase of flowers in the window near the wireless. A fire was blazing in the polished grate, reflecting and twinkling in the shiny brass fender.

Mr Chadwick again called out for his wife. Still she didn’t answer. He tried to jolly up the atmosphere, cracking jokes and making suggestions about how they could pass the time with indoor play.

Edith said, ‘I’ll take them up to the top of the house. We’ll play dressing up and maybe hide and seek.’

Jaspal threw his sister a look of disgust and, powerlessly, they followed Edith back out into the hall and upstairs.

How strangely quiet it was. Their feet made no sound on the rich, red stair carpet, and no voices emanated from any of the rooms. Everything smelt clean and aired and polished. They reached the first floor and padded past a walnut table with curved legs, above which hung a painting of English countryside with horses and golden fields.

They continued up another set of stairs and stopped on the landing of the second floor. Edith went to a far door and said, in a commanding voice, ‘I am going up into the attic. Wait here until I call you.’ Then she opened the door, and they caught a glimpse of a flight of steep wooden stairs rising up into the darkness above.

Jaspal stuck out his tongue furiously. ‘Who does she think she is, that big fat snob, bossing us around like some princess. I want to go home right now. I hate it here. I hate Edith. I hate the Chadwicks. They’re nothing but poshy, toshy, snotty-nosed idiots. I’m going!’

‘Jaspal, no!’ Marvinder grabbed his arm. But Jaspal shook her free. ‘You can’t stop me!’ he cried and leapt down the short flight of stairs to the landing below. But it was only to come face to face with Dora Chadwick.

He stared at her, shocked to a standstill. ‘Memsahib . . . Mrs Chadwick?’

She had seemed to float out of a room as if she were a stranger, lost in her own house. She carried a vase of flowers in her hand and vaguely held them up before her. ‘Oh, Jaspal! It is Jaspal, isn’t it?’