Prologue
Nicholson School, Murree, Indian Himalayas, May 1933
‘Coward!’
Andrew thought he’d misheard. He stood, bat in hand, ready to face the bowler.
‘Cowardly, cowardly, Lomax,’ George Gotley hissed at him from behind the stumps. ‘Just like your father.’
Andrew attempted to ignore him and concentrate on the bowler.
‘Lily-livered Lomax,’ George needled him again. ‘Can’t see why they chose you for the First Eleven. You’ll let them down just like your father did the regiment.’
Andrew felt a slight sweat break out on his brow. He gripped his bat harder and, still facing forward, said through gritted teeth, ‘Shut up, Gotley. You’re jealous ’cause my dad is a Great War veteran and yours isn’t.’
The bowler was now starting his run up.
‘I’d be ashamed if he was my father,’ George retorted. ‘He was a disgrace to the Rifles.’
Andrew clenched his teeth even harder to stop himself retaliating. Gotley resented him being chosen for the school cricket team and was using this house match to taunt him, he told himself.
‘Do you know why your father left the army, Lomax?’ George persisted. ‘Court-martialled for cowardice – should have been shot – that’s what my papa said. Now your father’s just a box-wallah with a couple of second-rate hotels for half-halfs.’
He could stand it no longer. Turning to glare at his classmate, Andrew shouted, ‘Shut up!’
A moment later, the cricket ball came hurtling at him and caught him on his shin pad.
‘Owzat!’ bellowed George, and the umpire’s finger went up into the air.
Andrew didn’t protest, but as he walked back to the pavilion, bat under his arm, he was overcome with anger. Behind the cricket pitch, the Himalayan foothills rose in a jagged line that pierced the blue sky. That way lay Kashmir, where his father and stepmother lived. He longed to be back there. How dare Gotley say such things about his dad!
When George and the other fielders trooped into the changing room, Andrew was waiting.
‘Not such a great batsman after all, are you, Lomax?’ George crowed. ‘Out for a duck.’
‘What you said out there was unforgiveable, Gotley.’ Andrew advanced on him. ‘I demand an apology.’
George sneered, ‘I’m not going to apologise for anything. It’s all true. Papa told me all about your father disgracing the Peshawar Rifles. Don’t know why they allowed you into this school, Lomax. It’s supposed to be for the sons of the army’s elite.’
Andrew towered over George, clenching his fists. For an instant he saw alarm on the other boy’s face. ‘My father was a hero in Mesopotamia and before that he served on the North West Frontier for years. He was soldiering when your father was a puking baby in nappies.’
George flushed. ‘My papa’s a major – which is more than your father ever was. And mine hasn’t been drummed out of the regiment for cowardice.’
‘That’s a lie!’ Andrew glanced around at his teammates; no one was meeting his look. ‘Donaldson?’ he appealed to his friend. ‘You know my father; he’s no coward.’
Donaldson seemed wary. ‘Leave him be, Gotley.’ Then, pulling Andrew away, he added, ‘Come on, Lomax; ignore him.’
Despite being riled, Andrew made a supreme effort and stepped away. Gotley was known for baiting other boys and boasting about his father being a major, yet he had never picked on him before. At thirteen, Andrew was tall and muscular for his age, which perhaps had kept him from being a focus of George’s bullying.
‘And that’s not all.’ George followed Andrew and prodded him in the back. ‘Your father’s a double disgrace. Carrying on with that woman you pretend is your stepmother. What’s it you call her? Meemee?’ He repeated the name in a whining, babyish tone. ‘Meemee! Meemee!’
Andrew spun round, anger flaring again. ‘Don’t you dare talk about my stepmother like that!’
‘But she’s not your stepmother – not according to my papa – because your father never married her. She’s just his whore—’ George said with glee.
‘Steady on, Gotley,’ Donaldson said, trying to intervene.
Andrew brushed his friend aside and pushed George back in the chest. ‘You rat, Gotley.’
George laughed in his face. ‘Funny; that’s what my papa said about your father and his mistress – they’re like a couple of sewer rats copulating. And she’s not even pretty. Got breasts like pancakes—’
Andrew could no longer hear a word of what Gotley or anyone else was saying. Anger coursed through his whole body, making his head and ears pound with noise. He sprang forward at George, giving off a great roar of rage, and tackled him to the ground, and with Gotley immobilised he