left during the War and I had to give up my lessons.’
‘And why did you go to Calcutta?’
‘My father is a Calcutta businessman. What do you do and why do you come here?’ he asked. ‘If I am not being too inquisitive.’
Before I could answer, a bell rang, loud and continuously, drowning the music and conversation.
‘Breakfast,’ said Mr Lin.
A thin dark man, wearing glasses, stepped nervously into the room and peered at me in an anxious manner.
‘You arrived last night?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I just want to stay the day. I think you’re the manager?’
‘Yes. Would you like to sign the register?’
I went with him past the bar and into the office. I wrote my name and Mussoorie address in the register and the duration of my stay. I paused at the column marked ‘Profession’, thought it would be best to fill it with something and wrote ‘Author’.
‘You are here on business?’ asked Mr Dayal.
‘No, not exactly. You see, I’m looking for a friend of mine who was last heard of in Shamli, about three years ago. I thought I’d make a few inquiries in case he’s still here.’
‘What was his name? Perhaps he stayed here.’
‘Major Roberts,’ I said. ‘An Anglo-Indian.’
‘Well, you can look through the old registers after breakfast.’
He accompanied me into the dining room. The establishment was really more of a boarding house than a hotel because Mr Dayal ate with his guests. There was a round mahogany dining table in the centre of the room and Mr Lin was the only one seated at it. Daya Ram hovered about with plates and trays. I took my seat next to Lin and, as I did so, a door opened from the passage and a woman of about thirty-five came in.
She had on a skirt and blouse which accentuated a firm, well-rounded figure, and she walked on high heels, with a rhythmical swaying of the hips. She had an uninteresting face, camouflaged with lipstick, rouge and powder—the powder so thick that it had become embedded in the natural lines of her face—but her figure compelled admiration.
‘Miss Deeds,’ whispered Lin.
There was a false note to her greeting.
‘Hallo, everyone,’ she said heartily, straining for effect. ‘Why are you all so quiet? Has Mr Lin been playing the Funeral March again?’ She sat down and continued talking. ‘Really, we must have a dance or something to liven things up. You must know some good numbers, Lin, after your experience of Singapore nightclubs. What’s for breakfast? Boiled eggs. Daya Ram, can’t you make an omelette for a change? I know you’re not a professional cook but you don’t have to give us the same thing every day, and there’s absolutely no reason why you should burn the toast. You’ll have to do something about a cook, Mr Dayal.’ Then she noticed me sitting opposite her. ‘Oh, hallo,’ she said, genuinely surprised. She gave me a long appraising look.
‘This gentleman,’ said Mr Dayal introducing me, ‘is an author.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Miss Deeds. ‘Are you married?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Are you?’
‘Funny, isn’t it,’ she said, without taking offence, ‘no one in this house seems to be married.’
‘I’m married,’ said Mr Dayal.
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Miss Deeds. ‘And what brings you to Shamli?’ she asked, turning to me.
‘I’m looking for a friend called Major Roberts.’
Lin gave an exclamation of surprise. I thought he had seen through my deception.
But another game had begun.
‘I knew him,’ said Lin. ‘A great friend of mine.’
‘Yes,’ continued Lin. ‘I knew him. A good chap, Major Roberts.’
Well, there I was, inventing people to suit my convenience, and people like Mr Lin started inventing relationships with them. I was too intrigued to try and discourage him. I wanted to see how far he would go.
‘When did you meet him?’ asked Lin, taking the initiative.
‘Oh, only about three years back, just before he disappeared. He was last heard of in
‘And why did you go to Calcutta?’
‘My father is a Calcutta businessman. What do you do and why do you come here?’ he asked. ‘If I am not being too inquisitive.’
Before I could answer, a bell rang, loud and continuously, drowning the music and conversation.
‘Breakfast,’ said Mr Lin.
A thin dark man, wearing glasses, stepped nervously into the room and peered at me in an anxious manner.
‘You arrived last night?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I just want to stay the day. I think you’re the manager?’
‘Yes. Would you like to sign the register?’
I went with him past the bar and into the office. I wrote my name and Mussoorie address in the register and the duration of my stay. I paused at the column marked ‘Profession’, thought it would be best to fill it with something and wrote ‘Author’.
‘You are here on business?’ asked Mr Dayal.
‘No, not exactly. You see, I’m looking for a friend of mine who was last heard of in Shamli, about three years ago. I thought I’d make a few inquiries in case he’s still here.’
‘What was his name? Perhaps he stayed here.’
‘Major Roberts,’ I said. ‘An Anglo-Indian.’
‘Well, you can look through the old registers after breakfast.’
He accompanied me into the dining room. The establishment was really more of a boarding house than a hotel because Mr Dayal ate with his guests. There was a round mahogany dining table in the centre of the room and Mr Lin was the only one seated at it. Daya Ram hovered about with plates and trays. I took my seat next to Lin and, as I did so, a door opened from the passage and a woman of about thirty-five came in.
She had on a skirt and blouse which accentuated a firm, well-rounded figure, and she walked on high heels, with a rhythmical swaying of the hips. She had an uninteresting face, camouflaged with lipstick, rouge and powder—the powder so thick that it had become embedded in the natural lines of her face—but her figure compelled admiration.
‘Miss Deeds,’ whispered Lin.
There was a false note to her greeting.
‘Hallo, everyone,’ she said heartily, straining for effect. ‘Why are you all so quiet? Has Mr Lin been playing the Funeral March again?’ She sat down and continued talking. ‘Really, we must have a dance or something to liven things up. You must know some good numbers, Lin, after your experience of Singapore nightclubs. What’s for breakfast? Boiled eggs. Daya Ram, can’t you make an omelette for a change? I know you’re not a professional cook but you don’t have to give us the same thing every day, and there’s absolutely no reason why you should burn the toast. You’ll have to do something about a cook, Mr Dayal.’ Then she noticed me sitting opposite her. ‘Oh, hallo,’ she said, genuinely surprised. She gave me a long appraising look.
‘This gentleman,’ said Mr Dayal introducing me, ‘is an author.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Miss Deeds. ‘Are you married?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Are you?’
‘Funny, isn’t it,’ she said, without taking offence, ‘no one in this house seems to be married.’
‘I’m married,’ said Mr Dayal.
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Miss Deeds. ‘And what brings you to Shamli?’ she asked, turning to me.
‘I’m looking for a friend called Major Roberts.’
Lin gave an exclamation of surprise. I thought he had seen through my deception.
But another game had begun.
‘I knew him,’ said Lin. ‘A great friend of mine.’
‘Yes,’ continued Lin. ‘I knew him. A good chap, Major Roberts.’
Well, there I was, inventing people to suit my convenience, and people like Mr Lin started inventing relationships with them. I was too intrigued to try and discourage him. I wanted to see how far he would go.
‘When did you meet him?’ asked Lin, taking the initiative.
‘Oh, only about three years back, just before he disappeared. He was last heard of in
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