A House Called Askival by Merryn Glover Page A

when the news was good and they seemed happy enough. But if ever they spoke of illness, or missing home, or crying in their beds at night – which Ruth so often did – Ellen’s tears spilled down her face and into the crevices of her neck. Sometimes she begged James to let her go to them. Always he refused. The girls were just fine and would turn out the better for it. And how could she abandon the streams of impoverished mothers on the maternity ward just because she was missing her own girls? Was she placing herself and her own family above the needs of others? Above the calling of God? All the great mothers of the Bible gave up their children. The mothers of Moses, Samuel, Jesus. Indeed,the great fathers also. Think of Abraham. Think of The Heavenly Father Himself! It was the ultimate sacrifice and surely the sign of a godly parent and the highest love. And if the Father knew when each sparrow fell to the ground, would he not also care for their daughters?
    So Ellen learnt to staunch her tears, to write cheery letters, to smile and wave bravely at each farewell. She never knew the wells of James’ unshed tears, the depths and darkness of those wells, or the great stone that lay across them.
    When he discovered the empty box of baking powder, James crushed it in his fist and threw it, along with the soggy grey mass of potato, into the bin. The Landour Community Cookbook he hurled at the wall and for supper he had fried eggs. Again.
    He washed up in scalding water, splattering Ellen’s old apron and letting his hands swell and flame an angry red. His eyes stung, throat burned. Leaving the dishes on the drainer, slippery with soap scum, he carried a cup of coffee to the living room. It had grown dark, but he did not bother to turn on a light. Setting the coffee on a table beside him, he sank onto the tired sofa, his head falling to his hands. It was soundless, at first. Just a juddering of the ribs and choppy breath, but then it rose till he was shaking and flooded with tears. His sobs pushed him deep into the seat, dragging his shoulders, bending him double as their beating got louder. Louder and faster. Not just in him but beyond him, where it was also a rattling and a voice.
    He held his sobs. The beating went on.
    There was someone at the front door.
    His breath rushed out on a gasp and he looked around him in the dark room.
    Pound, pound, rattle, rattle.
    â€˜Sahib!’ the voice called.
    James froze. The voice. His hands clenched the crumpled fabric of the apron, heart raced. That voice.
    Impossible. The man was dead.
    â€˜Doctor-sahib!’
    But it was his voice. James got up and made for the back door, legs shaking. He would slip out through the garden and down the hill, escape this madness, run out into the night and never come back. Just as Aziz had done.
    But in the dark he kicked over the small table and there was a crash as his coffee hit the floor.
    â€˜Sahib?’
    James turned slowly towards the voice, his breathing heavy, body tense. At last, lifting the apron to the mess of his face, he wiped his eyes and squeezed the dripping end of his nose and made his way to the door. With shaking hands he drew back the bolts. Top, middle, bottom. Three hard scrapes of metal against metal, like the cocking of a rifle.

TWELVE
    It was Iqbal. With a tray of tea and toast. Ruth stood blinking at him, still muddled by sleep, a shawl clutched around her.
    â€˜ Chotta hazri !’ he beamed.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Little breakfast,’ and he slipped past her to lay down the tray. ‘You can have in bed, if you like.’
    She scratched her head. ‘Um… What time is it?’
    â€˜Six-thirty, beti .’
    â€˜Oh god.’
    His face fell. ‘Too early? I am mistaking. I wait three days – but you are not overcoming the jet lag?’
    â€˜No, no, you’re fine. I just wasn’t expecting… Thanks. But you don’t have to—’
    â€˜Pleasure is