The Sapphire Child (The Raj Hotel #2) - Janet MacLeod Trotter Page 0,35

such a long time.’

‘Not that I could see—’

‘I bet it is. Everyone knows the awful Archibald left the place heavily in debt. Poor old Tibby – that’s why she has to take in those waifs and strays,’ Lydia declared. ‘Is she still wearing Tom’s clothes?’

‘She was in a dress,’ said Stella.

Andrew piped up. ‘Stella says there’s an Indian artist living there from Lahore.’

‘She’s taken in an Indian?’ Lydia’s tone was disdainful. ‘Whatever next?’

‘I’d like to go and see his paintings. Could I, Mamma?’

‘Whatever for?’ asked Lydia. ‘I’ve always found Indian art rather vulgar.’

‘I liked his bold paintings,’ said Stella. ‘They were bright and colourful – a bit like Mr Lomax’s.’

‘Like Tom’s?’ Lydia gave a derisive laugh. ‘Well, this Indian isn’t going to win any prizes then, is he? That’s typical of Tibby – she can’t help taking in lame ducks.’

‘Mr Lal isn’t a lame—’

‘Never mind what he is. Let’s listen to some music. Stella, be a good girl and put something on the gramophone. Something we can dance to. Andrew, move the card table and roll up the rug.’

Lydia’s sudden whims still surprised Stella, but she was thankful at her change in temper. She put down her sewing and went over to the wind-up gramophone that was kept in the alcove beside the inglenook fireplace. On a shelf above was an array of records in their paper sleeves.

‘What would you like to dance to?’ she asked.

‘Ragtime,’ Lydia ordered, getting a little unsteadily to her feet. ‘Anything by Scott Joplin. We’ll do the Turkey Trot and the Grizzly Bear.’

Minnie, sighing at having to abandon the card game and move, said, ‘Dearest, these young ones won’t know what they are.’

‘Then I’ll teach them,’ said Lydia. ‘Come on, Andrew, on your feet and shift the table.’

‘But I can’t dance,’ he protested.

‘Then it’s time you learnt,’ insisted his mother. ‘I taught your father to dance to ragtime – or tried to. I brought records back from America during the war.’

‘You were in America during the war?’ Andrew asked in amazement as he shunted chairs out of the way.

‘I certainly was – dodged German U-boats to go and fundraise for the war effort. Did your father never tell you?’

‘No,’ said Andrew. ‘He never talks about the war.’

‘Typical of Tom not to give me any credit. I bet you know all about how the wonderful Esmie was nursing in Serbia.’

Stella’s insides fluttered at the mention of Esmie. Lydia’s mood was so volatile when she’d drunk a lot of alcohol that she might say anything.

Andrew shook his head as he rolled the Persian rug out of the way.

‘Well, I did my bit too,’ said Lydia. ‘I was the personal driver of a brigadier-general. Esmie was a mere nurse.’

‘I’ve found one,’ said Stella, quickly winding up the gramophone and putting on the record.

Lydia was diverted from her brooding train of thought by the jaunty music. She pulled off her shoes. ‘Watch me, Andrew!’

Lydia’s face lit up as she kicked up her heels and waved her arms, dancing enthusiastically to the old-fashioned tune. Stella could just imagine a younger, thinner, vivacious Lydia captivating Tom with her energetic dancing and forceful personality. She watched Lydia pull her son into the dance, shouting instructions and encouragement. When the record finished, Lydia cried, ‘Put it on again, Stella!’

Stella was eager to take part – she picked up dance steps quickly – but hesitated without being asked by Lydia. Andrew was heavy-footed and struggled to keep up. She watched, hoping his lack of skill wouldn’t annoy his mother.

When the record finished again, Lydia – puce-faced – collapsed into a chair.

Minnie clapped. ‘Oh, well done, dearest! You can still do it.’

‘Mummy, you make me sound ancient.’ Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘Gosh, I need a drink. Stella, pour me a whisky, will you?’

Stella glanced at Minnie for permission; the older woman was always fretting that Lydia drank too much after dinner.

‘Don’t look at her,’ Lydia snapped. ‘Drown it in soda if you must. I’m just thirsty.’

‘I’ll get it, Mamma,’ said Andrew, rushing to the drinks tray. ‘I know what to do.’

Lydia huffed. ‘I bet you do. A hotel is no place to bring up a young boy – all those old soaks drinking chota pegs from dawn to dusk. Is your father still drinking too much?’

‘Lydia,’ Minnie admonished.

Stella saw the indecision on Andrew’s face; he didn’t know how to answer. He wanted to please his mother without being disloyal to his father.

‘Would you like me to put on another record?’ Stella intervened. ‘You could teach