her body, her arms round an invisible partner, balanced
a little precariously on the soles of her long-ago shoes.
“Oh how my heart has wings.”
Chapter Six
WHILE IBRAHIM was out booking the seat and Tusker was still out with Bloxsaw, the
dak came. Among the few bills and catalogues was an airmail letter from the Blackshaws in
England: a proper letter in a proper envelope, not one of those wretched new-size air-letters
it was difficult to open without tearing part of the message. The reason for the envelope was
that something had been enclosed: a newspaper snipping from The Times .
LAYTON. On February 19 at his home, Combe Lodge Combe Magnus, Surrey, after a
short illness, John Frederick William, Lt-Col. (IA Retd) Pankot Rifles, beloved husband of
the late Mildred Layton (née Muir), dear father of Sarah and Susan, grandfather of Teddie,
Lance and Jane, greatgrandfather of Boskie. Funeral private. No Flowers please, but
donations if wished to the Cancer Research Fund.
Phoebe Blackshaw had written: “I’m afraid we’ve reached the stage of life when we look at
the Obits first. Directly I saw the word Pankot it occurred to me that you and Tusker must
have known Colonel Layton and his family or at least known of them. Not being real Pankot
people ourselves the name only rings vague bells, perhaps as people you sometimes referred
to. Anyway there it is. How is dear old ‘Bloxsaw’? And how are your dear old selves?”
Having delivered that last glancing blow, Phoebe rambled on full of herself as always. If
Phoebe’s letters were not now virtually the only ones Lucy could expect to have from home
she would have considered them tiresome in the extreme.
When Tusker came back from his walk he seemed in a good mood. He asked cheerfully,
“Anything nice in the dak ?”
“Only a letter from Phoebe.”
“Usual guff I suppose. What’s the drill for lunch, old thing?”
It was ages since he had called her that.
“Has your walk made you hungry, Tusker dear?”
He said it had but that he didn’t want broth, nor a tray from the restaurant. He didn’t want
to go to the restaurant either. The very sight of Mrs Bhoolabhoy waddling from bedroom to
kitchen and back again with one of her bloody headaches turned him off. He hadn’t seen
Mrs Bhoolabhoy since his attack. He didn’t care if he never saw her again, the old bitch.
He ruffled Bloxsaw’s dumb head, and hesitated. Was he at last going to mention the
garden?
“We could go to the Shiraz for lunch,” he said.
Her heart fluttered.
“Oh, Tusker. It’s so expensive.”
“Bugger the expense.”
“What about tonight?”
“Can’t tonight. Billy-Boy’s coming over for a noggin, remember?”
“That’s what I mean, Tusker. The Shiraz for lunch would be lovely if we can really afford it
for once, but it will worry me if you overdo things. Shouldn’t we go to the Shiraz another
day, when you don’t have to cope with Billy-Boy in the evening?”
“What’s the point when it’s now I’m hungry? Thirsty, too. Ibrahim!”
“Ibrahim’s out, Tusker. What do you want? I’ll get it.”
“A gin if there’s any left. Where’s the idle old sod gone?”
“Well I thought that as you’re spending the evening with Billy-Boy I’d go to the second
house at the pictures, so he’s gone to get my ticket. Is that all right?”
“What could be wrong? You usually do go.”
Not for a long time, she was about to say, but didn’t because the nice mood he was in
might not last through the small argument such a conversation could easily lead to. So she
gave him a very weak gin, changed her twin set and shoes and at twelve-thirty they went
across to the Shiraz and up in the lift to the Mountain View Room where he complained
about the table first offered and then about a gravy stain on the menu the waiter handed
him.
But he was obviously enjoying himself. The Srinivasans waved. Bobbie and Nita Ghosh
came across for a word. The
a little precariously on the soles of her long-ago shoes.
“Oh how my heart has wings.”
Chapter Six
WHILE IBRAHIM was out booking the seat and Tusker was still out with Bloxsaw, the
dak came. Among the few bills and catalogues was an airmail letter from the Blackshaws in
England: a proper letter in a proper envelope, not one of those wretched new-size air-letters
it was difficult to open without tearing part of the message. The reason for the envelope was
that something had been enclosed: a newspaper snipping from The Times .
LAYTON. On February 19 at his home, Combe Lodge Combe Magnus, Surrey, after a
short illness, John Frederick William, Lt-Col. (IA Retd) Pankot Rifles, beloved husband of
the late Mildred Layton (née Muir), dear father of Sarah and Susan, grandfather of Teddie,
Lance and Jane, greatgrandfather of Boskie. Funeral private. No Flowers please, but
donations if wished to the Cancer Research Fund.
Phoebe Blackshaw had written: “I’m afraid we’ve reached the stage of life when we look at
the Obits first. Directly I saw the word Pankot it occurred to me that you and Tusker must
have known Colonel Layton and his family or at least known of them. Not being real Pankot
people ourselves the name only rings vague bells, perhaps as people you sometimes referred
to. Anyway there it is. How is dear old ‘Bloxsaw’? And how are your dear old selves?”
Having delivered that last glancing blow, Phoebe rambled on full of herself as always. If
Phoebe’s letters were not now virtually the only ones Lucy could expect to have from home
she would have considered them tiresome in the extreme.
When Tusker came back from his walk he seemed in a good mood. He asked cheerfully,
“Anything nice in the dak ?”
“Only a letter from Phoebe.”
“Usual guff I suppose. What’s the drill for lunch, old thing?”
It was ages since he had called her that.
“Has your walk made you hungry, Tusker dear?”
He said it had but that he didn’t want broth, nor a tray from the restaurant. He didn’t want
to go to the restaurant either. The very sight of Mrs Bhoolabhoy waddling from bedroom to
kitchen and back again with one of her bloody headaches turned him off. He hadn’t seen
Mrs Bhoolabhoy since his attack. He didn’t care if he never saw her again, the old bitch.
He ruffled Bloxsaw’s dumb head, and hesitated. Was he at last going to mention the
garden?
“We could go to the Shiraz for lunch,” he said.
Her heart fluttered.
“Oh, Tusker. It’s so expensive.”
“Bugger the expense.”
“What about tonight?”
“Can’t tonight. Billy-Boy’s coming over for a noggin, remember?”
“That’s what I mean, Tusker. The Shiraz for lunch would be lovely if we can really afford it
for once, but it will worry me if you overdo things. Shouldn’t we go to the Shiraz another
day, when you don’t have to cope with Billy-Boy in the evening?”
“What’s the point when it’s now I’m hungry? Thirsty, too. Ibrahim!”
“Ibrahim’s out, Tusker. What do you want? I’ll get it.”
“A gin if there’s any left. Where’s the idle old sod gone?”
“Well I thought that as you’re spending the evening with Billy-Boy I’d go to the second
house at the pictures, so he’s gone to get my ticket. Is that all right?”
“What could be wrong? You usually do go.”
Not for a long time, she was about to say, but didn’t because the nice mood he was in
might not last through the small argument such a conversation could easily lead to. So she
gave him a very weak gin, changed her twin set and shoes and at twelve-thirty they went
across to the Shiraz and up in the lift to the Mountain View Room where he complained
about the table first offered and then about a gravy stain on the menu the waiter handed
him.
But he was obviously enjoying himself. The Srinivasans waved. Bobbie and Nita Ghosh
came across for a word. The
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