not.’
Sam thanked him and turned to Dusty. He felt in the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a letter which he unfolded. ‘Since we have time, Dusty, read this.’
Dusty took the letter, glanced at it and returned it. ‘Tell me the good bits, Sam.’
‘It’s all good. I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise; not when you’re going for a crucial interview. Although, noting your calm and absolute control, I needn’t have worried. Such maturity in one so young! You know how to protect yourself. That is good. Good for you.’
Dusty took the letter again. It read. “Dear Mr Dustoor. From my last letter you would have expected to hear from me sooner. Forgive me, but although inquiries in Goa confirmed my belief that your young ward is indeed my nephew and that his mother may indeed be Dom D’Silva’s sister…” ‘So he’s Dom not Denzil?’
‘Yes. I knew the initial was D. There, I must have known a Denzil. Read on.’
Dusty nodded and read on: “may indeed be Dom D’Silva’s sister, I have decided not to make the trip to Bombay and to let matters lie. Upsetting the status quo would, as you wisely stated solve nothing. I was curious, even keen, (in the circumstances, who wouldn’t be), but having met Dom—he was in Goa to help with my inquiries—certain facts remain unanswered. Also, having met the rather large D’Silva clan, I got the impression that many of the D’Silvas may wish to settle in England. That would put some strain on my family. So, as I would rather not be involved in sponsoring or supporting applications to the Home Office, my South London address is for you alone. For Dusty too, should he wish to use it. From what you have said that seems unlikely and I’ll respect the young man’s sensitivities. You have rehabilitated the boy and deserve his undivided loyalty, but I hope he won’t mind if you send me a photograph of him.”
Dusty handed the letter back to Sam, but before he could speak, the stocky, pith helmeted guard returned. ‘Please to board the train, gentlemen. It is about to depart. I am about to blow the whistle and wave the green flag.’
Sam nodded and Dusty climbed into the compartment, shut the door behind him, lowered the window and leaned out. They shook hands and boxed each other’s chins in a coy show of affection. ‘Good luck,’ Sam said, and turning round, saw the plump Mr Deshpande spring up into the Guards Van with unexpected agility.
‘Keep up the regime,’ Dusty said. ‘I haven’t seen you looking so well for ages.’
Sam grinned. ‘From now on you’re on your own. Write.’
‘You’re joking. I’ll be back in four days.’
‘I’m getting myself a Red Irish Setter.’
‘I was being selfish. I know how much you missed Bonny.’
‘We both loved that Golden Retriever. So you approve?’
‘Yes. Bonny’s death shook me. I didn’t want to go through all that again; but you should’ve insisted. Still, “I bid you beware/ Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.”’
‘Ah! Kipling.’ Sam smiled. With a plangent moan the train lurched forward. There was a metallic clang as the couplings engaged, jerked and lunged. Sam held up a grey felt bag, ‘in case you’ve forgotten to pack yours. Best razor I could find.’
‘Thanks. Take care, the train’s picking up…I did shave this morning.’
‘Next time get closer to the razor,’ Sam teased.
Dusty compressed his lips. ‘I do care, Sam. In my own way, I really do.’
‘I know,’ Sam shouted, as the train picked up speed. ‘Look out of the window when you go over the Ghats, the views are worth it.’ He waited and waved till the train drew out of sight.
Chapter Five
‘S orry young man, but that’s my berth. Yours is the bunk above.’ The uniformed Sikh scarcely moved his lips, or so it seemed, for the general demeanour of his face was taut. Dusty put it down to his beard. It was neat and tightly tucked inside a hair net that went round his chin from
Sam thanked him and turned to Dusty. He felt in the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a letter which he unfolded. ‘Since we have time, Dusty, read this.’
Dusty took the letter, glanced at it and returned it. ‘Tell me the good bits, Sam.’
‘It’s all good. I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise; not when you’re going for a crucial interview. Although, noting your calm and absolute control, I needn’t have worried. Such maturity in one so young! You know how to protect yourself. That is good. Good for you.’
Dusty took the letter again. It read. “Dear Mr Dustoor. From my last letter you would have expected to hear from me sooner. Forgive me, but although inquiries in Goa confirmed my belief that your young ward is indeed my nephew and that his mother may indeed be Dom D’Silva’s sister…” ‘So he’s Dom not Denzil?’
‘Yes. I knew the initial was D. There, I must have known a Denzil. Read on.’
Dusty nodded and read on: “may indeed be Dom D’Silva’s sister, I have decided not to make the trip to Bombay and to let matters lie. Upsetting the status quo would, as you wisely stated solve nothing. I was curious, even keen, (in the circumstances, who wouldn’t be), but having met Dom—he was in Goa to help with my inquiries—certain facts remain unanswered. Also, having met the rather large D’Silva clan, I got the impression that many of the D’Silvas may wish to settle in England. That would put some strain on my family. So, as I would rather not be involved in sponsoring or supporting applications to the Home Office, my South London address is for you alone. For Dusty too, should he wish to use it. From what you have said that seems unlikely and I’ll respect the young man’s sensitivities. You have rehabilitated the boy and deserve his undivided loyalty, but I hope he won’t mind if you send me a photograph of him.”
Dusty handed the letter back to Sam, but before he could speak, the stocky, pith helmeted guard returned. ‘Please to board the train, gentlemen. It is about to depart. I am about to blow the whistle and wave the green flag.’
Sam nodded and Dusty climbed into the compartment, shut the door behind him, lowered the window and leaned out. They shook hands and boxed each other’s chins in a coy show of affection. ‘Good luck,’ Sam said, and turning round, saw the plump Mr Deshpande spring up into the Guards Van with unexpected agility.
‘Keep up the regime,’ Dusty said. ‘I haven’t seen you looking so well for ages.’
Sam grinned. ‘From now on you’re on your own. Write.’
‘You’re joking. I’ll be back in four days.’
‘I’m getting myself a Red Irish Setter.’
‘I was being selfish. I know how much you missed Bonny.’
‘We both loved that Golden Retriever. So you approve?’
‘Yes. Bonny’s death shook me. I didn’t want to go through all that again; but you should’ve insisted. Still, “I bid you beware/ Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.”’
‘Ah! Kipling.’ Sam smiled. With a plangent moan the train lurched forward. There was a metallic clang as the couplings engaged, jerked and lunged. Sam held up a grey felt bag, ‘in case you’ve forgotten to pack yours. Best razor I could find.’
‘Thanks. Take care, the train’s picking up…I did shave this morning.’
‘Next time get closer to the razor,’ Sam teased.
Dusty compressed his lips. ‘I do care, Sam. In my own way, I really do.’
‘I know,’ Sam shouted, as the train picked up speed. ‘Look out of the window when you go over the Ghats, the views are worth it.’ He waited and waved till the train drew out of sight.
Chapter Five
‘S orry young man, but that’s my berth. Yours is the bunk above.’ The uniformed Sikh scarcely moved his lips, or so it seemed, for the general demeanour of his face was taut. Dusty put it down to his beard. It was neat and tightly tucked inside a hair net that went round his chin from
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