Page 30 of The Sapphire Child
Stella was startled by a voice in the trees. She stood clutching her bicycle as a slim dark-haired man in white emerged from the long grass. She gaped at him; he was wearing tight churidar pyjamas and a loose-fitting kurta.
He pressed his palms together and bowed in greeting. ‘Namaste.’
‘You’re Indian?’ she gasped in delight.
‘I am Indian by birth and a citizen of the world.’ He gave her a grave smile and extended his hand. ‘Dawan Lal from Lahore.’ He had a soft cultured voice and an intense look in his dark eyes.
‘Fancy that!’ Stella shook his hand, delighted to find someone from so near home. ‘I’m Stella Dubois from Rawalpindi.’
‘Ah, Tibby has told me about you – she’s been hoping you would visit.’
Stella smiled. ‘Oh, good. I’ve been at a bit of a loose end – Andrew has gone out with his mother again. I hope Miss Lomax won’t mind me coming without him?’
‘I’m sure she won’t,’ he reassured her. ‘Please, allow me to escort you to the house. You can leave your bicycle by the wall – it’ll be quite safe.’
‘Thank you,’ said Stella, taking the tin of shortbread she’d brought as a gift from the bicycle basket. They fell into step together. ‘So, you’re one of the artists who live in the castle?’
‘Some might call me an artist.’ He gave a deprecating smile.
‘What would you call yourself?’
‘A sadhu – a disciple – of Art.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hands. ‘Art cannot be contained in mere paintings or confined to the sketchbook. Art is all around us – it is in the glory of nature and in the exquisite architecture of a beautiful building.’
She let him chatter on as they skirted round the side of the castle, through a kitchen garden with neat rows of lettuce, onions and potatoes, and a glasshouse filled with ripening tomatoes. Dawan led Stella in through a back door, its paint blistered and peeling, and down a dark corridor. Faintly, she could hear a piano being played somewhere deep in the house.
‘We’ll try the kitchen first,’ said Dawan. ‘Tibby was going to make soup – we’ve a mountain of marrows to get through.’
They found Tibby in the barrel-roofed kitchen, down on all fours and peering into a cupboard. Dawan called her name.
She replied without looking up. ‘The mice have been into the oatmeal – droppings everywhere. Have you been removing the traps again, Dawan?’
He ignored her question and announced, ‘Tibby, we have a visitor. Miss Stella Dubois of Rawalpindi.’
Tibby leaned around and looked up. She was still wearing the same shapeless purple hat she’d worn at the railway station.
Her face creased in a smile. ‘Stella, how delightful! Have you brought Andrew to see me?’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Stella. ‘He’s out with MrsLomax. He’ll be annoyed I’ve come without him – I should have waited, shouldn’t I?’
‘Not at all,’ said Tibby, standing up. Wearing a man’s riding jacket over a flowing scarlet dress embroidered with flowers, she padded barefoot across the flagstones.
Stella handed over the tin. ‘Miss MacAlpine made you some shortbread.’
‘Delicious! My favourite, thank you. We’ll make sandwiches – I think there’s jam, and some boiled eggs left over from breakfast. Let’s eat al fresco. I’m ravenous. Do you eat eggs, Stella? Or you can have cheese – if Dawan hasn’t fed it all to the mice. We’ve gone vegetarian since Dawan arrived. He’s Hindu.’
‘I have no religion except Art,’ said Dawan gravely. ‘Shall I make some tea?’
‘That would be kind,’ said Tibby, peering into a large bread bin. ‘Oh dear. The boys must have used all the bread for toast this morning. Shall we have oatcakes instead?’
Stella thought of the mouse droppings in the oatmeal.
‘Why don’t we make a salad with the egg?’ she suggested. ‘I see you’re growing tomatoes and lettuce. Perhaps we could spice it up with some onion and herbs and a bit of ginger. Do you have ginger?’
‘What a good idea,’ Tibby enthused. ‘Do you hear that, Dawan? Someone else who likes ginger. A woman after your own heart.’
‘Of course she eats ginger,’ said Dawan. ‘She was raised in the Punjab.’
‘We might steal you away from the Templetons,’ said Tibby, lighting up a cigarette. ‘I have absolutely no artistic flair in the kitchen.’
