Daisy's Long Road Home Read online

  When he woke in the morning, though, he realised he was going nowhere, at least not on that day. During the night his wrist joint had swollen to the size of a golf ball and was extremely painful. There was no chance he would be able to drive with such a savagely throbbing hand, and certainly no chance of driving safely over rough terrain.

  Mike was already up and about and noticed Grayson’s clumsy efforts at lacing his shoes. ‘Let’s have a look.’ He turned the wrist gently over and then back again. ‘I don’t think there’s anything broken, but it’s nasty,’ he opined. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘I stumbled coming out of the restaurant and fell against a brick wall,’ Grayson lied fluently.

  ‘It looks as though your hand lost out to the wall. How much did you drink last night?’ Mike seemed to have recovered his spirits this morning. Ironic, Grayson thought, when his own were plummeting.

  ‘Not guilty. But it’s a wretched nuisance. I can’t drive like this.’

  ‘Someone should look at it. You’ll probably end up in a sling. I doubt you’ll be going anywhere for at least a week.’

  His friend’s pessimism didn’t come as a surprise, but Grayson wasn’t going to argue. He had every intention of setting off the following day, however painful his wrist. He would get it strapped, that was the answer.

  ‘There’s a medical unit at the cantonment,’ Mike advised. ‘You could call in there. They might even have an X-ray machine.’

  ‘I didn’t realise the hospital was still functioning. I wonder if Dr Lane has stayed. I doubt it—it’s been ten years.’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ his friend said cheerfully and, for the first time since they’d arrived at the bungalow, he sat down to eat the chota hazri Ahmed had prepared.

  Grayson didn’t follow suit. The pain was making him feel too sick to eat. ‘Can you drive me to the military lines, Mike, before you go into town?’

  ‘Sure thing. I’ll be with you in two ticks.’

  He was as good as his word and dropped his colleague at the hospital less than thirty minutes later. The last time he’d been here, Grayson remembered, was to collect Javinder after his young colleague had received a dangerous head wound from the rioting in Jasirapur. At first sight, he was surprised to see the place looking no different. But when he observed the building more closely, he saw its paint was peeling and rampant weeds had breached the walls at random intervals. The bicycle racks by the main entrance were slowly rusting into a pile of red crumbs.

  He pushed open the familiar green door and peered into the dark interior. He was about to call out when footsteps sounded and a slightly shabby white coat appeared at the further end of the waiting room.

  ‘Dr Lane!’

  ‘The very same. And I recognise you too.’ The elderly man’s parched skin crinkled into ever deeper creases as he tried to recall the man who stood on the threshold.

  ‘Grayson Harte, District Officer.’

  ‘Ah yes, now I recall. Grayson Harte. Supposed District Officer, wasn’t it? Well, well, who would have thought it. Have you come back to Jasirapur to put away more villains?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Grayson opted for vagueness on the subject of why he’d returned. But he was genuinely pleased to see the older man, now grey-haired and a little stooping. ‘I had no idea you were still here, Doctor. But it’s lucky for me that you are. I’ve come hoping you or your nurse might do something with this.’ He stretched out his hand.

  ‘There’s just me. No nurse. No anybody in fact.’ Grayson heard the tinge of bitterness. ‘The 7th was disbanded some time ago, you know, and the hospital will close in two weeks. I’m the very last remnant.’

  ‘It must be a difficult time for you,’ Grayson conceded. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he said, ‘But you’ll be returning home, I imagine?’

  ‘Home?’ The doctor almost barked the word. ‘Where is home do you think? This is my home.’ He shot Grayson a swift glare and then promptly forgot his grievance. ‘You’re looking decidedly sick. Pasty-faced. Come into the surgery.’

  Once there, he carefully examined the swollen wrist, turning it this way and that until Grayson thought he would pass out at any minute.

  ‘Not broken,’ the doctor eventually pronounced. ‘You’re fortunate. But it will need binding pretty securely.’ And he marched off into one of the small anterooms and brought back a large stack of padding and bandages. Enough to wrap an Egyptian mummy, Grayson thought.

  ‘The last time we met, I had that young girl helping me,’ Dr Lane said conversationally. A ploy, Grayson could see, to distract him from the newly exquisite pain. ‘You remember, the one who nearly came to grief the night the monsoon broke.’

  ‘I remember,’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘Daisy Driscoll.’

  ‘Yes, Daisy, that’s right. But not Driscoll … no, it was … Mortimer.’

  ‘It’s Driscoll now.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Her husband died.’

  ‘Yes, of course he did. Drowned, wasn’t he, trying to save her from those blaggards?’

  ‘That’s the story,’ his patient said non-commitally.

  ‘But why Driscoll?’ The doctor swathed the last of the bandages tightly across the wrist bone and clamped a large safety pin in place.

  ‘It’s the name she was born with. She’s working as a nurse and I imagine she felt it would be more professional to revert to her unmarried name.’

  ‘A nurse, eh? Splendid. I always thought she would make a good one. I’m glad she did it—train, I mean.’

  ‘She did—at Bart’s and during the Blitz. A pretty rigorous training too.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about her.’

  ‘I still see her occasionally,’ he said casually. ‘This looks a very solid job. Thank you.’ He rolled down his sleeve. ‘She’s here now,’ he offered. He saw the doctor looking thunderstruck and said, ‘For some reason or another she wanted to come back to India and, when I told her I was headed here on business, she decided to tag along.’

  He purposefully made it sound as though Daisy’s decision had been a last-minute whim and his own business nothing out of the ordinary.

  Dr Lane shrugged his shoulders as though to free himself from the inexplicability of people and went to fetch a linen sling. He tied it around Grayson’s neck, then stood back to observe his workmanship. ‘That should stand you in good stead. But no weight on the wrist, mind. And rest it as much as possible. I’ll check it over for you if you come back before they finally evict me.’

  ‘I won’t be able to keep the sling on for long. I need to drive.’

  ‘That would be stupid.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a choice.’

  ‘Then you’re likely to damage yourself further and your wrist will have to go in plaster. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I’ll have to risk it.’

  ‘What’s so urgent that you have to drive?’ the doctor enquired. ‘And if it’s so desperate that you go somewhere, why not employ a driver?’

  No, Grayson thought, the job was far too secret to share with a driver. He wondered how much to tell and then decided on at least a small degree of honesty. A doctor gets to hear all kinds of things and who knows, Lane might have heard something that could help his mission.

  ‘Do you remember a chap called Javinder Joshi?’ he began.

  ‘Javinder? Of course, I remember him. Had him in here a few months ago. He needed a check-up, he said. He was going up country and wanted to be sure he was fit for it. Rugged terrain up north, I gather.’

  The small hairs on Grayson’s arms stood to attention. Here, quite unexpectedly, could be the breakthrough he’d been seeking and so far had failed to find.

  ‘Do you know where Javinder was headed?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice as devoid of interest as possible.

  ‘One of the princely states,’ Dr Lane said distantly. ‘One of the smaller ones.’ It was looking better all the time. He had been thinking
on precisely those lines. ‘Let me see …’ The doctor pondered. ‘No, I can’t remember the actual name. There are so many of them.’

  ‘It’s not important,’ Grayson reassured him, while a deep well of disappointment opened within. ‘But thanks for patching me up so neatly.’

  ‘Much good it will do if you’re intent on driving for days.’

  ‘I’ll try my best to keep your handiwork intact,’ he promised. ‘And I’m glad I found you today. Wherever you decide to go, I wish you the best of good fortune.’

  And he did, sincerely. He could imagine what a tremendous wrench it must be for the doctor to leave after being so long a medical man in India. Forty years or more, it had to be.

  ‘Time moves on,’ Dr Lane said gruffly and opened the door for him. ‘Need a tonga?’

  ‘No, I’ll walk. The sun is still on its climb. I should be able to reach town before disappearing in a pool of sweat.’

  The older man permitted himself a slight smile and waved his patient off. Grayson heard the door close as he began to walk down the main thoroughfare of the cantonment towards the gates that led to the Jasirapur road. But he’d travelled only a few yards when he heard a shout from behind. Dr Lane was standing on the hospital threshold, his hands flapping wildly in the air.

  ‘Sikaner,’ he yelled.

  Grayson frowned and cupped his hand to his ear. ‘Pardon.’

  ‘That was the name. Where Javinder was bound. Sikaner.’

  When she heard that Grayson was unable to leave that day, Daisy felt a small pinch of guilt. It was because of her that he’d been injured and had to seek medical help. He’d gone to the hospital, Ahmed told her. She wondered if by any chance he would meet Dr Lane there. When she’d first arrived in town, she’d been tempted to drive to the medical centre, but almost immediately had thought better of it. Her old mentor was most likely retired and, in any case, it was sensible not to stir the past any more than she was already doing. Her guilt did not survive long; instead a strong sense of relief took over, relief that Grayson was still in Jasirapur. It meant he was close at hand and that gave her the confidence she needed after the frightening events of the last evening. She needed it this morning in particular. There was one more thing she had to do, one last visit she had to make.

  The tonga dropped her a few streets from the bazaar, where, according to Daya Suri, the Bahndari house was situated. It took only minutes to learn from a passer-by the precise address she needed. She was lucky to find Mr Bahndari at home that morning, luckier still that his servant appeared unfazed by a stranger on the doorstep and ushered her into the house without question. Her name would mean nothing to his master, she knew, and she had to hope that curiosity would drive the elderly man to meet her.

  The servant left her waiting in a large, airy room, its wide windows overlooking the river and open to any chance breeze that blew. It was clear her host was another wealthy man, but one with elegant and understated taste. She felt immediately at ease in the cool, quiet space, filled with jewel-coloured hangings and the most delicately wrought porcelain. Between tapestries, the walls of the room were a soft white but, here and there, washed the palest green from the water’s dancing reflection. The only sound was a gentle ripple from the river below.

  A quiet footfall and an elderly gentleman, bandbox smart, entered the room and walked towards her. Mr Bahndari, she presumed. He bowed his head in greeting and, without speaking, waved her towards a silk-covered ottoman. When he clapped his hands for the servant to bring cold drinks, Daisy had the curious feeling that she had already lived through this scene; it was an eerie echo of the visit she had paid to the Suris. Except that it wasn’t. This man appeared courteous and unthreatening, and even at an advanced age, made a fine figure. It was hardly surprising that Parvati Rana had sought his protection all those years ago.

  ‘You are a visitor to Jasirapur, Miss Driscoll?’

  She agreed with the proposition but was careful to add, ‘A returning visitor.’ His eyebrows rose slightly. It was evident he thought Jasirapur an unlikely place to revisit. ‘I was here ten years ago.’

  ‘And did we meet then? Forgive me if I have forgotten our encounter.’ He was clearly perplexed at her appearance in his house, but far too well mannered to mention it.

  She hastened to reassure him. ‘We’ve never met before, Mr Bahndari, but I believe that we have acquaintances in common.’ It was only fair to him to get to the point as soon as she could.

  ‘Really? So you or your family are in business?’

  ‘No, indeed not. My husband was a soldier in the 7th Cavalry. He had a very good friend in the regiment. His name was Anish Rana and I believe you knew him.’

  A little breathlessly, she waited for her host’s reaction. The man’s face appeared suddenly much older and his eyes, though fixed on her, seemed to be looking elsewhere.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I knew Anish well.’

  There was a lengthy pause in which he seemed unwilling to add to this sparse statement. She began to think that, despite her host’s gentle manner, she would discover nothing. Unless, of course, she was willing to trespass in what could be difficult territory.

  ‘I believe you knew his mother?’ No doubt she was breaking every rule of Indian hospitality but she had to find out what he knew.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he asked his own question. ‘Why are you here? Anish has been long dead.’

  ‘I know, and I realise that to talk of him might distress you. I find it difficult too—I considered him a friend. We used to ride out together and he spoke of you. He told me how kind you had been, his benefactor, he said. Without you he could not have become an officer in the cavalry.’

  Mr Bahndari gave a long, sad sigh, which whispered around the airy space and fled through the open window. ‘That is true enough. His family refused him any help.’

  ‘So he told me. But you were good to him and good to his mother.’

  The man’s eyes were once more distant, his gaze drifting through time. A gentle smile played on his lips. ‘She was a most beautiful woman, you know. Kind, gentle. A loving person.’

  Then, as he returned to the present, his gaze sharpened. ‘Do you believe in karma, Miss Driscoll?’

  ‘I know what it means.’

  ‘It is a concept in Buddhism, in Hinduism too. I believe in karma. I believe that everyone makes their own. Sooner or later, your deeds catch up with you. What goes around, comes around, isn’t that the Western phrase? Perhaps not so poetic but it expresses much the same idea. Parvati will be revenged, you can be sure.’

  The words shocked Daisy. They seemed so out of keeping with the conversation, with the quiet room, the gentle river, the courteous old man.

  ‘You look upset. You don’t consider revenge a suitable emotion for a man of my age? But if you had known Anish’s mother, you would understand.’

  ‘I’m sure I would,’ Daisy made haste to say. ‘Certainly I understand her brother was not kind to her.’

  ‘That is to express his misdeeds mildly. Ramesh Suri was brutal. When Parvati’s husband died in the mud of the Somme, she was cast from her family. She was a widow, useless to them and helpless to defend herself. Suri seized her husband’s assets, such as they were, and she was left with nothing. Then he had the hypocrisy to judge her when she took my protection. What else was she to do? Shroud herself in white and beg at the temple in order to stay alive?’

  She noticed his fists clench. The conversation was headed in a troubling direction. After all these years, it was clear his pain was still raw. She felt ashamed. She hadn’t intended to stir such unhappy memories for the poor man and sought hard to find another tack.

  ‘I imagine that her husband’s family were not able to help?’

  He made a soft tutting sound between his lips. ‘They had no interest in a poor widow once their son was killed. That is not the way in India.’

  Daisy sipped from the iced glass and tried to decide how best to approach what she ne
eded to ask. At length she said, ‘It can’t have helped that the Rana family lived some distance away.’

  He looked blank and she tried again. ‘I believe their family home is miles from Jasirapur.’

  ‘The Rana family?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes. Anish’s grandparents. He told me once that his grandfather wanted to adopt him when his father was killed, but his mother insisted he stay with her. That couldn’t have helped the relationship, I imagine.’

  ‘That may well be true. I know very little of the family. I do know, though, that their name is not Rana.’

  She felt confused. ‘But Parvati, your friend—’

  ‘My lover,’ he insisted. ‘I am proud of the fact.’

  ‘Parvati’s name was Rana.’

  ‘It was the name she took when she married. It was the name that Karan took.’

  She shook her head, mystified. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Why should you? To understand you must have experienced the overbearing nature of Indian family life. Parvati told me about it many years later, told me that Karan had wanted to break free. And to do that, he changed his name. I believe his father ruled some small princely state to the north of the region, and the boy’s destiny was to succeed him.’

  Anish’s grandfather must have been a princely ruler and he a direct heir, she thought. No wonder he’d been such a proud man. Perhaps a little too proud. Was it partly pride that had driven him to such murderous action?

  ‘But it wasn’t what Karan wanted,’ Mr Bahndari continued. ‘There were many quarrels, I think, before he escaped and joined the Indian Army. He enlisted under a new name and that ensured he could not be traced. Unless he decided otherwise, he would never have to return home. ‘

  ‘I see.’ That was one small mystery solved, but elsewhere the mist was still clinging thickly. ‘You mentioned that Parvati’s husband came from a princely state. I suppose you have no idea of its name?’