sighed deeply, a common mannerism when he heard something a bit controversial, or “near the mark” as he would say.
“That’s an interesting observation, Sandra,” Maisie had responded. “But what do you think might have inspired such feelings?”
Billy was the first to speak. “He might’ve been jealous of the boy. Or he might’ve been jealous of his wife. Could be that he was good at all the manly sort of things, like taking the boy shooting, but when it came to just having a bit of a lark, he was too much of a stuffed shirt.”
“Enough to see a boy of fourteen leave home and not know where he is?” asked Maisie.
“I’d been out at work for two years by the time I was fourteen,” said Billy.
“Me too,” added Sandra. “And my father certainly didn’t expect to see me but once a year.”
And then the moment Maisie now regretted. “Billy, if he thinks a man could do a better job, which is why he came to a woman, why, we’ll give him a man—and one who knows boys better than Sandra and me put together.”
She had thought he would be pleased, and he seemed genuinely so at first. It was later that his fear of failure had been so devastatingly played out. But she was now fairly certain that Sandra had made a good point. Perhaps Jesmond Martin had not wanted his son found, or at least, not for a while. Not only did she wonder why, but she found that she was not as surprised as she might have been to find that Usha Pramal was, for a short time, part of the Martin household.
Usha Pramal was still on her mind as she cut into a clutch of herbs, then crushed seeds and measured spices according to the recipe given to her by Mrs. Singh. She felt at once as if a spark had lit the kindling under her senses. Her skin tingled when she leaned over the bowl and breathed in the fragrance. The different aromas seemed like ribbons twisted and tied together; though each hue was distinct, a brash new color had been created. It felt alive, this color, as if it were a person.
In two separate pans she fried onions and the whole spices, adding a ginger and garlic paste to the mix, along with crushed almonds. Juggling the pans as best she could—she wondered just how many frying pans an Indian cook might need—she set aside the cooked ingredients and turned her attention to the meat. She boned a fresh chicken, putting the carcass in a saucepan with water to draw the stock, perhaps to make a soup for another day. Having cut the flesh into smaller pieces, she began to place them in a large cast-iron frying pan into which she had poured an oil called ghee, also purchased from the Singhs’ shop. When the chicken was golden brown—and the smell of cooking had well and truly penetrated her flat—she began to blend the ingredients together, turning down the gas burner to a mere simmer.
“There,” said Maisie. “That should do it.” And she smiled, pleased with her efforts thus far.
Concentration on the task at hand had once again transported her to thoughts of leaving England. She would not be gone for long, perhaps a few months—six, at the outside. Or perhaps a year. That was a nice, rounded length of time; time enough to truly be a traveler and not a tourist. Some specific plans for that part of her journey were emerging; there was something she wanted to accomplish. And then Canada, perhaps. Certainly, when James described the broad, unforgiving landscapes, she was intrigued—but would that interest sustain her? As she stirred the simmering chicken, she realized, again, that it was James’ love for her and hers for him that he imagined would sustain them both—but would it? She reached for a small pot of cream—she could not find the yoghurt specified in the recipe but thought this would do—and used a penny to twist off the lid and poured in half, sweeping it into the deep yellow mixture and enjoying the change in color and texture as it merged until there was a lighter golden hue, like morning sunshine bringing everything alive.
That’s what they would be together. Blended. Not two, separate; but two, becoming more united with the years. And there was a comfort in the thought. Perhaps, like a complex dish, they could retain their separateness—leaning over the pan, she could still