guests. But perhaps he saw this as a harmless way to deflect her grief and anger. And he could always say, later, “You mustremember how recent it was, and how upset she’s been, especially since the police have got nowhere.”
I drifted into sleep and dreamed not of murderers but of India. It’s strange how smells and sounds come back so vividly in a dream. The dust, ancient and full of an exotic mix of scents from dung to rare spices. The muffled sounds of car wheels in the distance, harness bells jingling, and the creak of wood as the oxen put their shoulders into pulling. The feel of the dry wind on one’s face, just before the monsoon rains come. Voices in a bazaar, a dozen different dialects, all talking at once. I was back in a familiar and happy past, safe in a world I knew so well, my father walking through the compound gate, Simon Brandon at his heels.
Sunday morning it rained again. Not just the occasional shower, but a hard steady rain that had no intention of going away.
Most of us went with Serena to attend morning services at St. Ambrose Church in Diddlestoke, and listened to a homily on faith in times of trouble. The rector, aptly named Mr. Parsons, was eloquent. Most of the congregation were wearing black, although the Government had tried to persuade people to eschew mourning, to keep up the spirits of those at home as well as the returning wounded. My blue uniform coat stood out among them.
On the walk home, I asked if anyone knew someone in the Wiltshires, adding casually, “I haven’t heard from friends in a while. Are they facing serious opposition? Should I be worrying?”
There was a general shaking of heads. Lieutenant Bellis added, “I shouldn’t, if I were you. Your letters probably haven’t caught up with you yet.”
I had to leave it there.
Jack and Serena had gone ahead, to see that breakfast was ready for us, and afterward we played bridge. It was fun at first, but then the friendly bickering grew more strident as the better players argued over each hand. I lost interest and wandered away.
Captain Truscott was a tall, thin man suffering from nerves. Hishands shook as he dealt the cards, almost like a palsy. No one had said anything as he twice dropped cards, or his fork fought to find his mouth at meals. But his mind was sharp and his sense of humor intact.
He too was soon banished from the tables, and he came in to join me in the music room. He’d asked me earlier to call him Freddy.
“May I join you?” he asked politely.
“Of course. This is a sanctuary for hopeless bridge players.”
He laughed. “Do you play?” He gestured toward the piano.
“Not as well as I should like.” Pianos are delicate creatures and dislike being shipped around the world, much less being carted from cantonment to cantonment on the backs of camels or in swaying oxcarts, absorbing dust and monsoons in equal measure. Lessons were possible only when my mother could find an instrument in fair enough tune to make learning the rudiments of playing even possible. She has perfect pitch, and I realized much later what agony of spirit she must have endured, even trying to pass on a little of her skill to her only daughter.
Captain Truscott walked across the room, sat down at the piano, adjusted his chair a little, and began to play.
Freddy, I discovered, was amazingly gifted, his hands steady and sure on the keys. I came to join him, turning pages in the music he’d found. It was a pleasure to listen to him.
He smiled up at me, but I could see his mind was elsewhere, as if the music reached deep inside.
As he moved on to another piece, this one from memory, he said, “Marjorie Evanson liked to listen to my playing. Her husband was Serena’s brother. A pilot. They don’t have much of a record for longevity. Marjorie formed a sort of club for women who were the wives or widows of fliers. They met once a week in her London house to give each other support and comfort.”
Something else I
I drifted into sleep and dreamed not of murderers but of India. It’s strange how smells and sounds come back so vividly in a dream. The dust, ancient and full of an exotic mix of scents from dung to rare spices. The muffled sounds of car wheels in the distance, harness bells jingling, and the creak of wood as the oxen put their shoulders into pulling. The feel of the dry wind on one’s face, just before the monsoon rains come. Voices in a bazaar, a dozen different dialects, all talking at once. I was back in a familiar and happy past, safe in a world I knew so well, my father walking through the compound gate, Simon Brandon at his heels.
Sunday morning it rained again. Not just the occasional shower, but a hard steady rain that had no intention of going away.
Most of us went with Serena to attend morning services at St. Ambrose Church in Diddlestoke, and listened to a homily on faith in times of trouble. The rector, aptly named Mr. Parsons, was eloquent. Most of the congregation were wearing black, although the Government had tried to persuade people to eschew mourning, to keep up the spirits of those at home as well as the returning wounded. My blue uniform coat stood out among them.
On the walk home, I asked if anyone knew someone in the Wiltshires, adding casually, “I haven’t heard from friends in a while. Are they facing serious opposition? Should I be worrying?”
There was a general shaking of heads. Lieutenant Bellis added, “I shouldn’t, if I were you. Your letters probably haven’t caught up with you yet.”
I had to leave it there.
Jack and Serena had gone ahead, to see that breakfast was ready for us, and afterward we played bridge. It was fun at first, but then the friendly bickering grew more strident as the better players argued over each hand. I lost interest and wandered away.
Captain Truscott was a tall, thin man suffering from nerves. Hishands shook as he dealt the cards, almost like a palsy. No one had said anything as he twice dropped cards, or his fork fought to find his mouth at meals. But his mind was sharp and his sense of humor intact.
He too was soon banished from the tables, and he came in to join me in the music room. He’d asked me earlier to call him Freddy.
“May I join you?” he asked politely.
“Of course. This is a sanctuary for hopeless bridge players.”
He laughed. “Do you play?” He gestured toward the piano.
“Not as well as I should like.” Pianos are delicate creatures and dislike being shipped around the world, much less being carted from cantonment to cantonment on the backs of camels or in swaying oxcarts, absorbing dust and monsoons in equal measure. Lessons were possible only when my mother could find an instrument in fair enough tune to make learning the rudiments of playing even possible. She has perfect pitch, and I realized much later what agony of spirit she must have endured, even trying to pass on a little of her skill to her only daughter.
Captain Truscott walked across the room, sat down at the piano, adjusted his chair a little, and began to play.
Freddy, I discovered, was amazingly gifted, his hands steady and sure on the keys. I came to join him, turning pages in the music he’d found. It was a pleasure to listen to him.
He smiled up at me, but I could see his mind was elsewhere, as if the music reached deep inside.
As he moved on to another piece, this one from memory, he said, “Marjorie Evanson liked to listen to my playing. Her husband was Serena’s brother. A pilot. They don’t have much of a record for longevity. Marjorie formed a sort of club for women who were the wives or widows of fliers. They met once a week in her London house to give each other support and comfort.”
Something else I
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