Stephanie

  And it went on. Telephone calls, flowers, letters. She hadn’t the guts – or the iron will that would have been necessary – to resist him. Nor did she very much want to. He was dynamic and wickedly attractive. Also he was funny. Most of her boyfriends, of whom only two had been more than friends, were too young and too solemn for her. She had a light, quick-firing intelligence which Errol’s agreeable sophistication exactly matched. Within two weeks they were lovers and they met whenever they could arrange it. (He was often out of England.) But this trip, this holiday together, was, as it were, the first public announcement.

  He had not hesitated to invite her, although he said it was against ‘company rules’. He was clearly deeply smitten – ‘besotted’ was his word – and could not pass up such a chance. She had accepted in the first place for the simple personal reason that she wanted to be with him, but the excitement of visiting India was a strong secondary incentive.

  So it had happened, and it had been a wonderful two weeks’ enjoyment without a future or a past. There was already something between them more than the sexual urge, strong though that was. They sparked each other off, sometimes with brief quarrels, but always, it seemed, the sparks were flying without real anger – and laughter at the end. A true relationship was beginning.

  All the same, though she lived a free and easy life, she didn’t particularly fancy herself as a home-wrecker. Errol’s reassurances to the contrary still left her feeling uncomfortable. Just now and then when she was alone she thought about it.

  ‘Morning, miz,’ said a voice. She rolled over and sat up.

  It was the thin little Goan they had spoken to before. Though there were virtually no beggars on the beach, there was a persistent procession of people trying to sell you something, from bananas and soft drinks to saris and carpets, from copper and brass trinkets to jewellery and mosaics. Errol had a cheerful but immensely firm way of getting rid of them in the shortest possible time, but he had consented to look at this young man’s tray and fumbled over a ring and a brooch or two before sending him on his way.

  ‘Sir coming?’ said the young man, looking at her and then hopefully at the hotel.

  ‘Not this morning, Krishna.’

  ‘Good rings,’ said Krishna, showing the jewellery of his teeth. ‘Very good, very cheap. See? Look this. Beautiful brooch.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m just going to swim. And I wouldn’t want anything unless Mr Colton were here.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m just going to swim. And I wouldn’t want anything unless Mr Colton were here.’

  ‘Sir come later?’

  ‘Not today, I think. Perhaps tomorrow.’

  ‘You like take one back for him, see? This. See this. Suit you, miz. Beautiful stone, eh?’

  ‘Beautiful, yes. But not today. Thank you, Krishna.’

  The young man lingered in a way few of them dared to linger when Errol was around. Stephanie got up and shook the sand off her towel. Two Goan girls had come up unnoticed and were sharing a corner of her shade, squatting, whispering together and smiling at Krishna. Stephanie folded her towel and hung it on the raffia roof of the sunshade. Then she walked towards the sea. After a few yards she stopped and turned to look at the hotel. The sun wafted in her face, burned her feet; the surf was hissing as it crawled in over the sand. Krishna was walking back, starting the long trek towards his village; the girls still squatted whispering to each other.

  What had she left there? A paperback, a pair of sunglasses, a cotton hat, a thin wraparound dress, a purse with a few rupees in it. If they went, they went; but she didn’t think they would. The Goans were known for their honesty as well as their good manners. She plunged into the sea with a crow of delight.

  A half-dozen Indian women were bathing near her still wearing their saris. What price emancipation?

  When she came back twenty minutes later the girls had gone as if they had dematerialised, but her possessions were untouched. She dried her feet and looked at the blood oozing from her heel where she had caught it on a piece of half-buried driftwood. Very careless.

  Her body had almost completely dried already, her hair was half dry simply from three minutes’ walking back along the beach. Her heel was stinging. It was nothing, the merest cut. But this being India, did one take extra precautions? Errol had some antiseptic stuff. Worth a walk? It was nothing. And she could see if he was feeling better.

  She climbed the steps to the hotel but disdained the taxis always waiting to whisk guests up to their bungalows, and negotiated the steep path, cutting corners off the conventional road. The swim had invigorated her and she felt ready to try the four-minute mile.

  In the drive outside their bungalow two cars were standing, one an Ambassador, the maid-of-all-work car and taxi that proliferates throughout India, the other a sleek black Mercedes. Such a new and shiny Mercedes is as rare in India as a Rolls in a Welsh mining village. A chauffeur in a dark suit was sitting at the wheel. As she went up the steps she heard voices.

  Errol was entertaining two Indian guests. One she had met in Bombay, and was a business associate of Errol’s, Mr Mohamed, who had visited him at the Taj there. He was a stout bearded silent man who wore too much jewellery. The other man, clearly the owner of the car, was a different and superior type. A tall smooth man with a long neck and an oval head on which the greying hair was slicked back so smoothly that he looked more bald than he really was. He wore a suit of cream shantung silk with a black silk shirt and a cream tie, a diamond tiepin, diamond cufflinks and a black silk handkerchief. He exuded a quiet importance. He might have been the maitre d’hotel at an exclusive London restaurant, or chief adviser to some oriental dictator.

  He and Errol were seated. Mr Mohamed was standing holding some documents, which were clearly under discussion.

  Silence had abruptly fallen at her entry.

  She said: ‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here.’

  ‘Oh, come in, come in, darling. My friends called unexpectedly. Of course you know Mr Mohamed. Mr Erasmus is a colleague from Hong Kong.’

  Mr Mohamed bowed from the waist. Mr Erasmus slightly inclined his head. She saw the table was spread with maps and what looked like shipping lists, and a wallet was open with some money in it.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘I cut my foot and thought I’d get some antiseptic for it.’

  ‘In there, darling; second drawer, I think.’

  ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘Not too agreeable yet. But improving.’

  Mr Erasmus said: ‘May I please know the young lady’s name.’

  ‘Of course,’ Errol said. ‘Miss Locke. Miss Stephanie Locke.’

  Mr Erasmus eyed her with cold, polite interest. His skin looked so smooth he might just have shaved, or did not need to shave. He spoke perfect English, but his eyes were too slanted to be European.

  Presently the stinging antiseptic was on, and a plaster, dusted with antibiotic powder, over the cut.

  ‘You have had a tetanus injection?’ Mr Erasmus asked.

  ‘Oh yes, thank you. Errol insisted before we left.’

  ‘Stop and have some coffee while you’re here?’ Errol suggested, dabbing his head with a damp towel. But it was a halfhearted invitation and she smilingly refused. Couldn’t wait to return to the beach, she said.

  ‘You’ll stay to lunch?’ Errol said to the men, but again it was perfunctory. Mr Mohamed deferred to Mr Erasmus, who said: ‘Thank you, I must catch the afternoon plane to Delhi. Mohamed, I expect, will be returning to Bombay.’

  The fat Indian bowed formally from the waist as she left. The tall man inclined his head.

  III

  She spent an hour in and out of the sea and then climbed the hill again to meet Errol for lunch. He was better but his normal friendly yet devilish smile was tight-lipped and, she thought, forced.

  ‘Have they gone?’

  ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘Sorry I crashed in. I’d no idea.’

  ‘Neither had I.’
/>
  ‘Who was the new man?’

  ‘Just a colleague.’

  ‘I didn’t think he liked me.’

  ‘He’s only interested in business.’

  ‘Well, I certainly didn’t like him.’

  They walked down the hill and through the hotel to one of the outside restaurants looking directly over the sea. They hadn’t spoken on the way down.

  When a waiter had taken their order she said: ‘Is he the sort of boss?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Erasmus, of course.’

  ‘He’s the head of the South Asian division of our group. That’s all. We’re only loosely associated.’

  ‘He gave me the creeps.’

  ‘Oh, lay off it. He’s all right. In a business like ours you have to meet all sorts.’

  ‘Your business?’

  ‘The travel business, of course. We’re expanding all the time. You have to be international these days if you want to move on.’

  His voice was abrupt and unfriendly. He was clearly still out of sorts. They hardly spoke then for a time, but a bit later he rounded on the obliging young waiter who had not brought quite what was ordered.

  When the man had gone scuttling away Errol said: ‘They’re too slow. It does them good now and then to get a kick up the backside … I see you don’t agree.’

  ‘Well … a lot of famous men have done it, I know, but …’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘Been rude to waiters. It always seems to me unsporting because they can’t answer back. Of course if they’re really inefficient or rude to you …’

  ‘Which he wasn’t? Maybe you’re right. But you know with these cluster headaches I get very irritable, my dear.’

  ‘These what?’

  ‘Cluster headaches. It’s a form of migraine. Due, I’m told, to changes in my indole-peptide metabolism. Haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  He laughed. ‘ Probably not. Except that I kept blowing my nose and scratching my head last night.’

  ‘So what can you do for it?’

  ‘Not much. Pain killers. But it’s soon over – usually less than a day. And not serious … Does it put you off?’

  ‘Put me off? Why ever should it?’

  ‘My mother could never stand people with ailments. Said it made her feel unhealthy to mix with ’em.’

  In fact she rather warmed to this confession of physical weakness in a man so dominant. No doubt it explained his brusqueness today and the lack of that impish humour she found so engaging.

  She said: ‘Sorry I blundered in this morning.’

  ‘Sorry I glowered. I assure you they were no more welcome! I just wanted to lie in the dark!’

  ‘You’re better now?’

  ‘Yep. Did you see the cash on the table?’

  ‘What? Cash? Yes. It’s not my business.’

  ‘Nor is it. But you see we’re thinking of opening a theme park in Agra, and –’

  ‘Ugh! … Sorry …’

  ‘It isn’t as bad as it sounds. Just a development. The Indians themselves are in favour of it.’

  ‘But that surely means big money.’

  He laughed. ‘ Today we were only dealing with their commission. In India transactions can’t be arranged any other way.’

  After lunch they dozed for a while in a couple of the chaises longues, the Caryota palms and the banana trees wafting sun and shadow over them as the fronds moved in the breeze. Presently he threw his paperback down and said he thought he’d like to see Krishna again.

  ‘He was looking for you this morning.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  She went with him; the sun was still hot as they strolled across the beach. There were a few more people about than in the morning but unless you walked at high-water mark you didn’t meet anybody.

  A group of dark-skinned native boys were hauling in their fishing boat on wooden rollers. It was a primitive craft, long and very narrow, with a high prow, and it did not look as if any nails or screws had been used in its construction. Everything was lashed together with thongs. Stephanie and Errol stood watching while the catch was brought in in baskets and separated out and assayed. They laughed and talked with the men – Errol was very good at this. He took a lot of photographs, and then they went on their way.

  A mile further along was the beach encampment, which closed down and was carried away every night, and brought back and erected every morning. Here the beach sellers congregated in tents or behind raffia screens, or stood beside trestle tables full of carefully arranged trinkets. Old pewter pots and pans and inkwells and bubble pipes, copper bells from Benares, wooden idols from Khajraho, silk scarves from Madras, silver bangles and brass rings from Delhi, carpets from Kashmir, endless saris and rugs and paintings and cheap skirts and shirts and sandals.

  They had no need to ask for Krishna; the bush – or beach – telegraph had been at work and he came trotting to meet them, his battered old suitcase under his arm. He squatted on a sandhill away from the others, and soon the three of them were fingering his wares.

  The brooch Errol fancied had three rubies in it and was the prize of Krishna’s collection and for which he wanted eight thousand rupees. That was about four hundred pounds, and if the stones were as good as they looked it was dirt cheap. Even if they were not as good as they looked, it could hardly be expensive. (Always supposing the rubies were not pieces of glass. Krishna swore on his mother’s grave that they were not.) Errol was pretty sure the stones were real, so bargaining began. Eventually at 5,250 rupees Krishna would go no further, so Errol tentatively agreed the price.

  ‘Mind, I’m not at all certain I shall have it,’ he said, putting the brooch back among the others.

  ‘Take it,’ said Krishna eagerly. ‘Take it, eh? Keep it tonight, eh? Pay in morning.’

  At a second attempt Errol lit a cigarette. The smoke blew swiftly away. ‘Okay, I’ll pay you in the morning – or let you have it back. In the morning, about midday, eh?’

  Although it was not for her, Stephanie wore the brooch home. The setting was ornate but nicely worked.

  ‘You said you’d meet Krishna at twelve,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going off photographing churches?’

  ‘Oh, well … Well, what the hell. These little men are here to please us. They’re used to waiting. I say …’ He stopped. ‘That stall. They’re selling hash cookies. I can smell ’em from here.’

  ‘You mean – it’s what it sounds like?’

  ‘Yes. You must have tried them at St Martin’s, surely.’

  She pushed her hair back. ‘ I’ve smoked a joint now and then. Not had anything in this form.’

  ‘Let’s try ’em. We’ll keep them, have them for dessert. I’m getting tired of ice cream. May add a touch of the exotic to our lovemaking.’

  ‘I haven’t noticed anything lacking so far!’

  He laughed again, his good humour restored, and kissed her neck and went to buy a box.

  IV

  Next morning it was she who had the headache, he who was bright and cheerful. It had been a strange adventure in the night, when substances seemed to float and vision was enhanced and laughter and hysteria were interchangeable. Mischievously he had persuaded her to take more than she wanted, and to humour him after the day’s embarrassments she had eaten too many. She not infrequently took a fair amount to drink: it came from inner impulses of recklessness, a sudden sharp pleasure in kicking over the traces; but in these flurries of alcohol she had never been altogether without control of herself. Last night she had been, and this morning the aftermath was unpleasant.

  It had been a strange sexual encounter too, in which angels and devils seemed equally to scream and moan, in which sensations became double sensations and perversity was all. One floated, half-drowned, on a butterfly sea of orgasm which was deliriously beautiful but wayward and tormented. At the very edges of ecstasy was pain.

  Errol was almost too much on form this morning, and took anot
her hash cookie after breakfast to keep up the euphoria. He examined the brooch in the bright light of morning, then scrabbled in a suitcase and took out a jeweller’s glass. After a bit he shook his head.

  ‘They’re rubies all right, but they’re not top class. Too dark. He swears they’re Burmese, but they probably come from Thailand. And there’s a flaw in the middle one. I doubt if I’d be asked to pay more than four hundred pounds for the brooch in Bond Street.’

  ‘So you’ll not buy?’

  ‘Doubt it. Unless I could beat him down to two hundred. These people have an exaggerated idea of values.’

  ‘Shall you let him have it back this morning before you go?’

  ‘No. Make him wait. I should be back by four.’ He ruffled his hair, looking her over appreciatively, at the casual feminine grace with which she sprawled in her chair. ‘And what mischief will you get up to while I’m gone?’

  ‘Wish there was some. No, I’ve got books to read. Actually read, darling, to improve myself – you know – in the hope that I might get a second in June.’

  ‘If there were some other things you could graduate in,’ he said, ‘you’d certainly get a first.

  V

  It wasn’t easy to concentrate on Cervantes in the original Spanish with the brilliant glitter of the sun and the sea. Soon she would be back in Oxford in a petrochemical atmosphere and under draughty skies – with Schools not far away. At eleven she bathed in the pool and then, still wet, with a thin beach coat over her arm walked across the beach to dry. At once Krishna appeared.

  ‘Mr Colton has gone out for the morning taking photographs,’ she said. ‘He’ll be back this afternoon and will see you then.’