Page 133 of A Thousand Painted Hours

The luncheon was interminable. Channan kept up a graceful sort of conversation, and I must have participated, but my eyes dragged on Tanveer’s long hands as they folded a roti and dipped it in dal. I was aware of the heat of his calf nearby my shin. My gaze snared on the edge of his ear peeking out beneath his dastaar, the few inches of neck above his collar.

My mind whirled. He might not even wish to accept her offer. He might be angry, even. I could see a scenario where that might be true. My ears burned again, and I had no appetite.

And then I thought of him bending over our clasped hands, and I knew he also wished for the things hanging in the air.

It was painful to want anything so much. I had wanted and lost this lover more than once. He was so close I could smell the oil he used in his beard. His foot grazed mine under the table. My foolish brain remembered the kisses in the tiger enclosure all those years before, that first kiss, right in this very palace.

The servant who minded the table brought out a big bowl of cubed watermelon. “Memsahib,” he said to me, for I’d been eating enormous amounts of the fruit. I loved it madly.

“Thank you,” I said, and it gave me something better to focus on.

“So, Miss Turner,” the colonel said. “It is Miss? Where do you visit from?”

A chill touched my neck. Was he here because Peter had sent him, or sent word? I piled cubes of watermelon on my plate, one at a time, and lied. “South of England. My father was the Earl of Herewich. Are you familiar?”

“No, no. Spent most of my life here in the Punjab in one spot or another.” He frowned a little. “Wait, I’m remembering the ICS officer with an extraordinarily beautiful wife, who went home to take up the title, must be what fourteen, fifteen years ago. Is that your family?”

“Could be.”

“Well, I’ll be. What a small world. I worked with your father in Lucknow for a bit. He was always a bit of a radical. You have the look of your mother, I’d say.”

The story cut too close to truth. Of course Peter knew where I was because my mother had told him, but I seriously doubted he’d storm the palace and try to drag me home. Still. I felt dizzy with everything. I stood, feigning a headache. “I’m so sorry, will you all excuse me?”

I fled.

A Terrible Night, Part One

Autumn 1940

London

—67—

As I made dinner for myself and Mother, I listened to the radio, keeping half an eye on the weather, which promised to be clear and cold with a bright moon. Good flying weather. My nerves were on alert, and I kept the kitchen curtain open as I cooked.

The radio provided some company. Lately, the news had been a little better, with a big naval victory and Roosevelt’s re-election, but I was happy when music came back on. I was trying my hand at mock fish cakes, made with a very small amount of mackerel mixed with mashed potato, and was quite pleased with the way they looked when I fried them. With some mayonnaise mixed from eggs I’d got from Nina, and a half a head of cabbage, dinner would be rather appealing for a change. Mother wouldn’t eat much, of course, but I had enough for three, and I could put the extras away for tomorrow.

I fed Bastet and her kitten, whom I’d still refused to name, although he was clearly staying, then I sat down to the table. I saved my letters for dinnertime, and although they didn’t arrive every day, I’d had one this afternoon. It was a ritual to sit down and open it, taking my time to read his handwriting. We’d been comparing English and Indian poets at the turn of the century, and I had made some mocking attempts at imitation, which he then expanded. It was lighthearted, and gave me a smile, as it was meant to. After I saw to Mother, I’d write my daily letter in return.

The letters were a lifeline, even if we were out of sync because they took so long to arrive. I’d often receive three or four in a day, some long, some short, some a simple drawing meant to make me laugh or remind me of something I loved. Sometimes, he enclosed dried flowers or rubbed the paper with spices so they would fill the room with the fragrance of the Punjab.

When the letter was over and my dinner was finished, there was only the empty room with its overhead light shining too brightly on my bare table. Beneath the music was silence.

In the silence, with my single place setting, loneliness descended. It walked with me every hour. These were Mother’s last days, and I wished I could share the sorrow with someone.

So when I heard Peter’s step in the front hall, my spirits lifted. I hoped he was in a good mood.

I could see the minute he came through to the kitchen that he was not. His eyes were rimmed with red, and his hair was askew. “Peter!” I cried. “What is it?”

“I’ve just heard that one of the office girls was killed in a raid last night. Last night! There were only a handful of bombs because the weather was so terrible.”

“Oh, my dear, I am so sorry.” I pulled out a chair. “Sit down. Let me get you some dinner. It’s not terrible, and I have real mayonnaise.”

He dropped in the chair, head in his hands. “I can’t believe it.”

“Who was killed?” I filled a plate with a fish cake and some of the fried cabbage. “Anyone I would know?”

And the second I settled the plate on the table, I knew.