The Sapphire Child (The Raj Hotel #2) - Janet MacLeod Trotter Page 0,122

his father’s sheepish look and gave an encouraging smile.

‘Young Lomax!’ Ansom called him over. ‘Have you seen the morning papers?’

‘Terrible business,’ Fritwell said, puce-faced. ‘Ceylon. Out of the blue.’

‘What’s happened?’ Andrew asked.

‘Japs have bombed the naval base at Colombo,’ Tom explained.

‘Sounds like our air force boys chased them off,’ said Fritwell. ‘Shot down thirty enemy planes.’

‘Where on earth were they attacking from?’ Andrew asked, dumbfounded. He knew that the island of Ceylon, which lay off the southern tip of India, was crucial for protecting shipping through the Bay of Bengal and up to Calcutta.

Tom answered, grim-faced. ‘It means they must have at least one aircraft carrier operating in the Indian Ocean.’

Andrew was horrified. If Ceylon was vulnerable to attack, then so was mainland India. He sat down with the men; there was no sign yet of the baroness or Winifred Shankley. He had no appetite and after forcing down some tea and toast, he got up.

‘I’ve decided to travel on to Taha today and meet up with my fellow officers. I’ll come and say goodbye in half an hour or so,’ he promised.

No one protested.

Andrew went swiftly to the lobby and asked Jimmy to make arrangements.

Back in the flat, Andrew waited for his father to follow him up, but he didn’t come. Perhaps he was wary of saying the wrong thing, just as Andrew was.

A short while later, Andrew was back down in the lobby saying goodbye to the residents while Manek went to supervise the loading of luggage. Myrtle and Yvonne were there to wish him well, and Charles was hopping from one leg to the other, not wanting to be constrained by his grandmother.

‘Soldier!’ he cried, pointing at Andrew in his uniform.

Andrew crouched down and produced one of his grandfather’s toy soldiers that he carried as a keepsake.

‘This is for you, Charles.’ He put it into the boy’s small hand and saw him look up at his grandmother in questioning excitement.

‘I hope it’s all right to give him this? It belonged to Grandpapa Archibald.’

Myrtle smiled. ‘That’s very kind of you. We’ll make sure he’s careful with it.’

‘Say thank you,’ Yvonne instructed her son.

‘T’ank you, soldier,’ Charles said, his round face creased in a huge smile.

Andrew ruffled the boy’s hair and then stood up. He glanced around, wondering where his father was. Just then, Tom appeared with Jimmy.

Jimmy shook his hand in goodbye. ‘Your father wishes to take you to the station.’

‘I hope that’s all right?’ Tom gave him a wary look.

Andrew nodded in relief. ‘Thank you.’

Outside, he saw that Manek was loading the luggage into the Lomaxes’ green van and was waiting for him too. Andrew climbed in the front beside his father.

They drove in silence through the cantonment and into the busy streets of Saddar Bazaar. They bumped along in the van, his father tooting the horn at wandering cows and pedestrians.

He glanced at his father, whose face was tight with suppressed emotion. Andrew felt suddenly protective towards him. Over all these years, how hard had it been for his dad to be the subject of gossip about his cowardice and court-martial? As a boy, Andrew had been ashamed of his father being talked of as a mental case, but that was before he had experienced war for himself. In France, he had seen brave men – veterans of the Great War – paralysed with fear, and at times he had felt sheer terror himself. He should have stuck up for his father more in the face of his mother’s criticism.

He recalled something Stella had said long ago about his father being a hero despite being court-martialled. ‘Think of all the years of war he went through – all he had to endure – and he was a brave Rifleman on the North West Frontier for years before that. It’s not true that he was a coward.’

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Tom asked him with a sideways glance.

‘Nothing,’ said Andrew, with a stab of guilt.

‘I believe an old friend of mine is still in Taha,’ said Tom. ‘The Reverend Alec Bannerman. They call him the Padre – was an army chaplain in his day. He’s as old as the hills – in his nineties, I believe – but judging by his Christmas letters, he’s still sharp as a pin. I’m sure he’d give you hospitality if you looked him up.’

‘Was he in the Peshawar Rifles?’

‘No, but I came across him in Peshawar,’ said Tom. ‘And again in Taha when . . .’ He hesitated. ‘When my friend Guthrie