Flood of Fire by Amitav Ghosh

rushes along the shore – he was sure to be well hidden.
    Tearing off his banyan and breeches he swung himself over the vessel’s side, dressed in nothing but his knee-length drawers. Thewater was none too deep and refreshingly brisk: it took only a few minutes to cool off.
    He was about to pull himself aboard again when he caught sight of the soiled belaying pin, lying on the budgerow’s deck. It occurred to him that this was as good a time as any to give it the polishing it needed: it was within easy reach so he caught hold of it and dropped back into the river. A few steps towards the shore brought him into waist-deep water. He pulled up some rushes and began to scour the pin, his elbow pumping furiously in the water.
    The pin was skittle-shaped, of about a handspan’s length: the grease and mud had made it slippery, so he had to press it against his belly with one hand, while scrubbing it with the other.
    After several minutes of hard rubbing the encrustation of dirt began to come off at last. The pin was almost clean when a child’s voice broke in. ‘You! You there!’
    He was standing with his back to the lawn and was caught unawares. Spinning around, he found himself looking at a little blonde girl, dressed in a white pinafore: he guessed that she was the Burnhams’ daughter.
    Suddenly he realized that his chest was naked and that she was staring at it. Flushing in embarrassment, he retreated quickly into deeper water, stopping only when his body was submerged up to the neck. Then he turned to face her: ‘Hello!’
    â€˜Hello.’
    She looked at him gravely, cocking her head like a bird: ‘You’d better get out of the water,’ she said. ‘Mama says the river’s filthy and only horrid heathens and Gentoos bathe in it.’
    â€˜Does she?’ he said, in panic. ‘But then you mustn’t tell her you saw me in the river!’
    â€˜Oh, but she knows already. She was watching you with her bring-’em-near, from her bedroom window. I saw her.’
    Now another voice came echoing across the lawn: ‘Annabel! Annabel! Oh, you budmash larkin, have you no shame?’
    Zachary looked up to see the bonneted figure of Mrs Burnham streaming across the lawn in a torrent of lace and fluttering silk.
    He retreated again, sinking even deeper into the water, allowing it to cover him almost to the chin.
    â€˜Oh Annabel! What a bandar you are running out into the hot sun. We’ll be lucky if we’re not roasted half to death!’
    Mrs Burnham was running so hard that the bonnet had flown off her head: it would have fallen but for the pink ribbon that held it fast to her neck. Her ringlets were flying around her face and there were bright red spots on both her cheeks.
    Chastened though he was, it did not escape Zachary that Mrs Burnham’s appearance was in no small measure enhanced by her flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair. Nor was the Junoesque appeal of her generous bustline entirely lost on him.
    â€˜Oh Annabel!’ With her eyes carefully averted from Zachary, Mrs Burnham clapped her bonnet over her daughter’s face. ‘This budmashee just will not do! Come away, dear. Jaldee!’
    Zachary decided now that he had no option but to brazen it out. Adopting as airy a tone as he could muster, he said: ‘Hello there, Mrs Burnham – terribly hot, isn’t it? Thought I’d cool off with a quick bath.’
    An outraged quiver went through Mrs Burnham’s body, but she did not turn to look at him. Speaking over her shoulder, through clenched teeth, she said: ‘Surely, Mr Reid, there is some provision for bathing inside the budgerow? And if there is not then some must be made – for we certainly cannot have you wallowing in the mud, like a sunstruck buffalo.’
    â€˜I’m very sorry, Mrs Burnham; I didn’t think—’
    She cut him off sharply. ‘I must ask you to remember, Mr Reid, that ours