Page 2 of The Sapphire Child
George laughed in his face. ‘Funny; that’s what my papa said about your father and his mistress – they’re like a couple of sewer rats copulating. And she’s not even pretty. Got breasts like pancakes—’
Andrew could no longer hear a word of what Gotley or anyone else was saying. Anger coursed through his whole body, making his head and ears pound with noise. He sprang forward at George, giving off a great roar of rage, and tackled him to the ground, and with Gotley immobilised he let his fists fly. George screamed and struggled. Andrew saw blood spurt from George’s nose, but he didn’t stop.
Suddenly, a voice barked, ‘What in God’s name is going on?’
Someone grabbed Andrew round the neck and pulled him back. Choking, he resisted, still trying to swing at George. Captain Rae, their games master, had seized him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. George was still writhing on the floor, hands over his face, moaning in pain.
‘Explain yourself,’ Captain Rae ordered.
Andrew stood panting. He wasn’t going to tell tales.
‘Lomax savagely attacked Gotley, sir,’ one of George’s friends piped up.
‘Gotley provoked him,’ Donaldson defended Andrew.
‘Enough!’ bawled Rae, bending over George. At the sight of blood, he said, ‘Help him up, boys, and take him to Matron.’
When Andrew moved to lend a hand, Rae grabbed his arm. ‘Not you, Lomax. You’ve done enough harm already.’
‘But, sir—’
‘Don’t “but, sir” me,’ he snapped. ‘You’re in big trouble, Lomax. Now, get out of my sight!’
Chapter 1
The Raj Hotel, Rawalpindi, India, May 1933
Twenty-year-old Stella Dubois quickly brushed her honey-blonde hair and sprayed on eau de cologne – a gift from her friend Baroness Cussack – before rushing out of the manager’s bungalow and across the servants’ compound. Frisky, her ageing dog, ambled out of the shade of a jacaranda tree and wagged his curly tail in welcome.
‘Hello, old boy!’ She bent and hugged him round the neck, receiving licks to her pink cheeks. It wasn’t even seven o’clock in the morning, yet the air was already hot and oppressive.
‘Stella!’ her mother called from the bungalow steps. ‘Don’t get distracted. MrsShankley will be waiting for you. Chop chop!’
Stella gave Frisky a final pat and leapt up.
As she hurried across the hotel courtyard, she exchanged grins with Sunil the porter, who was sprinkling water from a bucket to dampen down the dust.
In the foyer, beneath the noisy whir of overhead fans her father was hovering behind the polished reception table, waiting to greet his guests for breakfast. Charlie Dubois, electric light glinting off his bald head, was dressed immaculately in a dark suit and faded lilaccravat. No matter how high the temperatures climbed, he refused to wear lightweight white suits, dismissing them as too casual for the honoured position of manager of The Raj Hotel. Catching sight of his daughter, his round moustachioed face creased in a broad smile.
‘Good morning, Sweet Pea!’
‘Morning, Pa!’
Threading her way through the profusion of potted ferns and jumble of cane tables and chairs, Stella hurried past the dark teak staircase and down the corridor. She knocked on MrsShankley’s bedroom door and then entered, knowing the old woman wouldn’t have heard.
‘Morning, MrsS,’ she shouted. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Once stout and robust, the former missionary had shrunk to a frail and forgetful elderly lady who constantly misplaced her new electrical hearing aid, her reading glasses and on occasion even her false teeth. Myrtle, Stella’s mother, was of the opinion that their long-time guest should be placed in a nursing home, but Stella couldn’t bear the thought.
Winifred Shankley was kind and gentle and had been a resident of The Raj Hotel for as long as Stella could remember. MrsShankley was half-dressed and peering under the bedside table.
Catching sight of Stella, she smiled. ‘My dear, I seem to have mislaid...’ She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Well, I’m not sure quite what. Do you think you can help? Sorry, I’m such a nuisance.’
‘No, you’re not,’ said Stella, getting down on all fours and searching. ‘Here it is – your ear trumpet.’ She stood up and handed over the ancient brass device. ‘You don’t need it any more, MrsS. You use an electrical hearing aid now, remember? The one with the battery that goes inside your handbag.’
Stella quickly retrieved the slim headset from the bedside table and fitted it over the woman’s head. ‘That better?’
Winifred’s face lit up in a smile. ‘Stella, you are an angel. What would I do without you?’
