The Sapphire Child (The Raj Hotel #2) - Janet MacLeod Trotter Page 0,116

hotel entrance?’

‘Please,’ Andrew said.

Downstairs in the foyer, Ansom was snoozing under a copy of the Military and Civil Gazette. Andrew saw a headline about Gandhi telling Indians not to resist the Japanese if they invaded India and to continue their campaign of civil disobedience; they wanted immediate independence.

Andrew felt a flicker of alarm. The last thing he wanted was for his regiment to be dragged into a policing role of rounding up and imprisoning Indians when they had a war to fight. He felt a renewed frustration that he had been deployed to the Frontier rather than to help in the battle over North Africa or in the Middle East. Yet if these rumours were true of their army being pushed back through the jungles of Burma by rapidly advancing Japanese forces, perhaps the spectre of India being invaded was no longer so fantastical.

To take his mind off grim war news and his growing nervousness at seeing his father again, Andrew spent the afternoon cycling aimlessly around the town and the military cantonment. Finding himself in the Anglo-Indian quarter of Lalkutri, he called into Dixon’s garage, run by Stella’s relations, and was greeted warmly by her cousin Sigmund, with whom he had often played cricket as a boy.

‘I didn’t know you were back in Pindi,’ said Sigmund.

‘I’m just passing through,’ said Andrew. ‘I’ve been posted to Taha. I’m with the Borderers.’

Sigmund gave him a cheerful salute. ‘Come upstairs and have some refreshment,’ he insisted. ‘My sister Ada is visiting. This will make her day to see Andrew Lomax dressed in khaki.’

Andrew felt a pang of nostalgia as he climbed the outside staircase to the flat, remembering how Stella used to take him there. It conjured up happy memories of visits to the lively and noisy household – Auntie Rose pressing him to eat mounds of cake and playing raucous games of cards with Stella and her cousins.

As soon as he saw Ada it was obvious she was heavily pregnant. He’d heard she’d married one of the Gibson twins a few years ago.

Ada kissed him on the cheek and laughed. ‘Yes, you are allowed to mention it. I’m expecting in June.’

‘Congratulations.’ Andrew smiled. ‘So, you’ve beaten your cousin Stella to marriage and motherhood.’

Ada rolled her eyes. ‘Stella has always been too fussy. She could have had her pick of the Lalkutri boys but she’s always had her sights set on marrying a pukka Brit.’

‘Now, now, sister,’ Sigmund chided, ‘don’t be unkind about Cousin Stella or Andrew here will have something to say.’

‘Sorry, Andrew,’ said Ada. ‘I’d forgotten how you were always coming to Stella’s defence.’ She laughed. ‘Oh, how sweet; you still blush at the mention of her name.’

Stella’s aunt welcomed him and plied him with afternoon tea while talking proudly of her eldest son Rick being in the Indian Air Force and training down at Walton, outside Lahore. The visit provided a welcome distraction as well as a chance to talk about Stella.

Andrew lingered until the shadows lengthened and he knew he couldn’t put off returning to the hotel any longer; it would be dark in half an hour. He said his goodbyes to the Dixons and pedalled home as he’d done countless times as a boy, the sky turning pink and flocks of birds settling noisily into the trees.

Drawing near to the Raj, his heart skipped a beat as he turned into Nichol Road. There, in front of the hotel, was parked the Lomaxes’ battered green van. His father had arrived.

Andrew took deep breaths as he wheeled the bicycle up the pathway to the portico. He could hear laughter coming from the lobby – Jimmy’s infectious giggle – and a deeper voice, one he also knew. Handing over the bicycle to the waiting Manek, he braced himself, as if going into battle, and strode into the hotel.

A middle-aged man with his back to the door was sitting in a cane chair next to Ansom and Fritwell. A bald patch on the crown of his head gleamed in the dim electric light and long bony hands clutched a tumbler of whisky and a half-smoked cigarette.

‘Ah, our young subaltern returns!’ Fritwell cried, catching sight of Andrew.

Their companion turned and for a moment he locked eyes with Andrew. Andrew felt a strange sensation; it was like looking at himself in thirty years’ time. The familiar face was deeply scored with wrinkles and the hair at his temples was grey. Then his father plonked his glass on the table, abandoned his cigarette and