Libby didn’t go straight back to Alipore; she went for a walk across the Maidan in the late afternoon sunshine. Indian families were picnicking, and boys were playing cricket. She passed a holy man lying on a piece of homespun cloth, asleep in the shade of a cassia tree.
She was shocked by what Flowers had told her. Could she be believed? Perhaps Flowers was warning her off so that she could have George to herself. Then Libby felt ashamed of such a thought. Flowers had shown her nothing but friendship. Besides, Flowers appeared to have no particular interest in George; in fact she kept all the young men from the chummery at arm’s length. Was this because Flowers was unsure about her position in the social group? Even though people were mixing far more freely since the War, did Flowers feel her Anglo-Indian-ness more keenly now than ever in the shadow of Independence?
Libby thought again of George kissing her under the willow tree. Why had he done so if he was involved with another woman? She had to admit that he had drunk a lot of beer that lunchtime and it was the first time he had attempted to kiss her since their brief embrace in Newcastle the previous year. But then, she was the one who had instigated that kiss. Libby felt a wave of embarrassment.
Perhaps their recent embrace had meant nothing to George. Apart from that impromptu moment, had he given her any encouragement beyond inviting her along to social events? Not really, Libby had to admit. She was just one of several young women that were always included in his dinner-dance parties. Yet she had felt special to him. Libby felt a kick of anger. If he was carrying on an affair with a married woman, he had no right to be encouraging her at the same time.
Libby caught the tram back to Alipore. By the time she got home, she had decided not to judge George until she had seen him again and confronted him with what she’d been told.
‘Had a nice tiffin with the Dunlops?’ Uncle Johnny greeted her, breaking off from his conversation with the mali as she crossed the garden.
‘Very,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve invited them to my birthday celebrations. Hope that’s okay?’
‘Course it is – you invite anyone you want. Got any room left for a spot of tea?’ he asked. ‘I’m going to join the Colonel on the veranda.’
‘No more food, thanks,’ said Libby, smiling, ‘but I’ll happily sit with you both.’
‘A letter came for you, by the way. It’s on the hall table.’
Libby’s heart lurched. Perhaps it was from George. She longed for it to be reassurance that he was in Dacca merely for business and that he was looking forward to seeing her on his return – making some arrangement just for the two of them. Flowers might have been misled by Eddy; perhaps Eddy wanted Flowers to himself?
She hurried into the house and picked up the letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar.
Dear Miss Robson
My sister Fatima has been castigating me since last week for my rudeness to you. You were her guest and I was the interloper. I must apologise for ruining your tea party and causing you both upset. There was no excuse for my behaviour except perhaps a rush of blood to the head at the news of Attlee’s announcement.
Please forgive the hasty things I said to you – especially my unkind remarks about your father in particular and memsahibs in general. You are obviously not in the usual category of lady Britisher and, having had time for my hot head to cool down a little, I have to admit to being more than a little impressed with your knowledge of Indian politics and your socialist sympathies.
So there, apology made and I hope accepted – in the spirit of comradeship if nothing else. If you were interested in seeing the other side of Calcutta – away from the dull clubs and drawing rooms of the wealthy – then I would be happy to volunteer as your guide. You could contact me at the newspaper office in Chowringhee Square. I quite understand if you would rather not. But please visit Fatima before you leave for Assam – otherwise I will be confined to the ‘dog-house’ for the rest of the year.
Yours in comradeship
Ghulam Khan
Libby was astonished. She re-read the letter, trying to stifle her amusement at his droll humour, not quite sure if his apology was genuine or ironic. She had felt cross with him every time she’d thought of the fractious tea party and the way he had spoilt her visit to Amelia Buildings. But now she felt guilty for not having made any attempt to see Fatima again; she should not have left it up to the doctor to issue another invitation. Perhaps she would send a note. Libby tucked the letter into her skirt pocket.
Later that evening, lying in bed under the mosquito netting, she read the letter twice more. What should she make of it? The thought of being shown the Indian side of Calcutta filled her with an excited curiosity. But she should probably ignore the letter. She suspected her father would be horrified at her going to meet this radical Indian journalist unaccompanied. Miss MacGregor, on the other hand, would no doubt applaud it.
Two days later, Libby stood outside the offices of The Statesman newspaper in slacks, a plain cotton shirt and with her hair tied back, waiting nervously. Trams and traffic thundered by. Ghulam had acknowledged her note and replied saying he would take her for lunch.
He appeared, ten minutes late, his jacket slung over his shoulder and his sleeves rolled up. He was better-looking than she had remembered, a lick of dark hair falling over his vivid green eyes.
‘You should have come into the building, Miss Robson,’ he said, ‘I was delayed by a phone call.’
‘I’m not clairvoyant, Mr Khan,’ Libby answered.
‘Sorry,’ he said hastily, with a lop-sided smile. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Nearly always.’ She ignored the fluttering in her stomach.
‘Have you been into Hogg’s Market?’
‘No, my aunt had to reach for the vapours when I suggested it. But I have a vague memory of going there with my dad years ago.’
Ghulam gave a grunt of amusement. ‘Then we shall risk your aunt fainting at the news and go to Nizam’s.’
He hailed a rickshaw. Libby was acutely aware that they were sitting with their arms touching – the dark hairs of his forearms tickling her pale skin – as they were jostled south down Chowringhee Street. They passed the Grand Hotel and turned into Lindsay Street. She felt suddenly tongue-tied but he appeared preoccupied and didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps meeting up with him was a mistake; they might find nothing to say to each other or end up arguing again. At the clock tower, Ghulam helped her down and paid the driver.
He led her into the covered market past pyramids of fruit and vegetables: bananas, apricots, okra and aubergines. Porters stepped around them with wide flat baskets on their heads, carrying packages of foodstuffs and cloth, while traders called out for business. Corridors spread out in different directions. She was struck anew by the plentiful supplies in India compared to the ration-weary Britain she had left behind. Any returning British would be in for a shock.
‘This way,’ said Ghulam, nodding. Libby was amazed at the variety on offer: stalls packed with china and hardware, drapery and shoes, flowers and hot peanuts. They pushed on through a butcher’s hall, the floor sticky with fresh blood. Overhead, fans whirred in the gloomy gaslit alleyways and pigeons flapped and darted. Passing a cheese stall, Libby could see daylight again. Ghulam stopped and waved her forward into a restaurant. She wondered if he had brought her the long way round so that she could experience the market in all its chaotic glory.
Ghulam was welcomed as if he often came there. A series of booths, some of them curtained, lined the room. From the chatter, Libby could hear that they were providing privacy for women and children. The people she could see were all Indian. Ghulam sat opposite her in one of the booths, leaving the curtain drawn back. She wondered who else he had dined here with in these intimate cubicles. Libby felt her insides flutter again.
‘What would you like to eat?’ he asked. ‘I come here when I’m in need of some Punjabi food. The Bengalis live on fish – sometimes I crave a well-cooked mutton curry.’
‘I like the sound of that too.’
He raised an eyebrow quizzically.
‘Auntie’s cook is probably the worst in Calcutta,’ she explained. ‘I’ve had my fill of soggy veg and rubbery chicken.’ She pushed escaping tendrils of hair behind her ears in a nervous gesture. ‘Oh dear, that makes me sound like a typical memsahib complaining about the servants. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I’d love a decent curry.’
Ghulam’s mouth twitched in amusement. He ordered swiftly. The waiter brought them glasses of nimbu pani. As they waited for the food, Ghulam took a swig of his lime drink and then leant on his elbows and fixed her with a direct look. Libby smirked.
‘What’s funny?’ asked Ghulam.
‘I was just remembering how Mother always nagged me about keeping my elbows off the table,’ said Libby, planting her own firmly on the tabletop too.
Ghulam gave his charming uneven smile again, the one that made his face suddenly very handsome and Libby’s stomach curdle. ‘We got off on the wrong foot, didn’t we?’ he said. ‘Let’s start again getting to know each other. Tell me about your mother with the exacting table manners.’
Libby found herself telling him not only about Tilly, her brothers and Josey, but about Newcastle, the café and Lexy, and her unhappiness at school and how she would have run away if it hadn’t been for her mentor Miss MacGregor. She spoke enthusiastically of her time as a Land Girl, of the anti-climax of living back at home again, of teaching Doreen to type and her frustration with the typing pool at the bank.
‘They didn’t expect a woman behind a typewriter to have any brain cells,’ said Libby. ‘I was forever getting into trouble for making alterations to the manager’s letters.’
This made Ghulam laugh, a deep, amused chuckle that made her laugh too.
A series of dishes came: mutton curry in rich gravy, black bean dal, fried aubergine, spicy potatoes and rice. Ghulam scooped up his food with chapattis so Libby ignored the cutlery brought for her and did the same. They both ate with relish.
‘This is all delicious,’ said Libby, licking her tingling lips. ‘Now it’s your turn – you’ve led a far more exciting life if everything Adela says is true. I want to hear about it all.’
After a bit of prompting, Ghulam began to tell her about growing up in Lahore in a tall mansion house in the heart of the old city, with three brothers and two sisters.
‘Rafi was always my favourite big brother,’ he said. ‘He was the dashing one who could ride and play sport and make friends easily. I idolised him. Being bright, he was sent away to school in Simla and I couldn’t wait for him to come home in the holidays – I was always pestering him to play cricket with me. Then he enlisted in the Lahore Horse and was sent to France. After that he went to Scotland to do a forestry degree. By the time he came home he was a stranger – aping the manners of the sahibs he worked with – and I was an angry young man.’
Ghulam drained off his drink. Libby poured him some more from the cool metal jug.
‘So you grew apart?’ guessed Libby. ‘A different war, but the outcome’s the same – a family split by long years of separation – I know how that feels.’ She saw the struggle in his face and knew that, deep down, he must still love his brother Rafi as much as he did as a boy. ‘You shouldn’t blame Rafi too much for that.’
Ghulam shrugged.
‘And you still had Fatima as an ally,’ said Libby with an encouraging look. ‘What was she like as a girl?’
Ghulam smiled with affection. ‘My little sister was the quiet rebel. I was the one who had the blazing rows with my father and older brothers but Fatima just got on with what she wanted to do – she studied hard at school and went on to university. She had an inspirational teacher like you did – her headmistress – but she also credits our mother. On the surface Mother was a very traditional woman who kept strict purdah and didn’t have an education – but Fatima told me our mother had lost three babies because there were no purdah doctors and she wanted Fatima to be a doctor to women like her.’
‘She must have been a remarkable woman to have raised such independent-minded children,’ said Libby.
‘That is my only real regret,’ Ghulam admitted, ‘that I never saw my mother again before she died.’
‘When did you last see her?’ asked Libby.
‘When I was released from prison in ’28. I went to see her when my father was out at work. She scolded me and made me eat a huge meal and wept over me when I left. I think we both knew we’d never see each other again.’
Libby saw his eyes gleam with tears. She waited while he sipped more of the lime-flavoured water and then said, ‘Tell me about your time with the communists – when you went to Simla campaigning for the rights of the hill people.’
He looked at her in surprise. ‘So Adela told you about that too? And did she tell you how her husband Sam saved me from arrest at the Sipi Fair?’
‘Not in any detail,’ said Libby. ‘I want to hear it from you.’
‘I was intent on making a scene at the Fair – in front of all those champagne-swigging Britishers and their rajah friends – but Sam saw me and barged me out of the way. Later, he helped hide me in the hills and got me safely away. If either of us had been caught he would have been in very grave trouble.’ Ghulam looked reflective. ‘He also intervened to save a Gaddi girl – one of the nomadic shepherds – from an abusive uncle. Sam is the bravest and most principled man I know.’
‘High praise for one of the despised sahibs,’ Libby said dryly.
‘There are exceptions to every rule,’ he said with the flash of a smile.
‘So, thanks to Sam’s intervention, you were able to carry on your campaigning?’
Ghulam nodded. With Libby’s encouragement he spoke about his hand-to-mouth existence all over northern India, speaking at rallies, evading the police and eventually coming to an uneasy truce with his persecutors during the War.
‘Unlike many of my comrades,’ said Ghulam, ‘I thought the greater evil was Hitler and his fascists, not the Britishers. Neither did I relish the prospect of a Japanese dictatorship taking over India.’
‘So you supported the Allies against Japan?’ asked Libby.
Ghulam nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips. ‘I believed that the quickest way to get rid of the Britishers for good would be to support the war effort – I wasn’t going to see the Japanese march in and impose a new Raj.’
‘So what do you think of the Indians who supported the Japanese in Burma?’ Libby pressed. ‘The ones who joined the Indian National Army – they’re treated as heroes now, aren’t they?’
She saw the sudden tension in his jaw and a flash of anger in his eyes.
‘I lost friends for good over my stance,’ he admitted, ‘but I don’t regret choosing to speak out against fascism.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Became a volunteer fireman here in Calcutta.’ He told her of how he had grown disenchanted with politics for a while, of his futile attempts to help the dying on the streets of Calcutta and of Fatima saving him. ‘She nursed me back to health – not just my body but my spirit – and helped me find my passion again for the things that matter.’
Libby was moved by his words and in awe of how much he had been prepared to give up for his beliefs. It was easy to spout forth political opinions but quite another to act on them. ‘Deeds not words’ had been Miss MacGregor’s mantra and the slogan of the women suffrage campaigners Libby had so admired. Ghulam had lived his whole life putting his ideals into practice too. She wondered if he had lost anyone special to him along the way.
‘So you’ve never got married or had a family?’ she asked.
His eyes widened, startled by her blunt question. ‘No,’ he spluttered. She saw his jaw darken with embarrassment. ‘Besides,’ he said, recovering, ‘marriage is a bourgeois institution, don’t you think?’
‘Well,’ said Libby, ‘it’s nice to be dining with a man who isn’t married. I’m not very good at choosing men.’ She stopped, realising she’d been thinking out loud. He was giving her a curious look. ‘Not that there’s anything implied in our meeting for lunch. I don’t want you to think that’s why I came – that I expect anything more than – er – lunch . . .’
Libby felt her cheeks burning. She put her hands to her face. ‘Oh dear, sorry. I don’t know why I said that.’
Ghulam started to chuckle. ‘Well, now we’ve both been embarrassed, so we’re even on that score.’
Libby laughed out loud.
‘Do I take it,’ he said, ‘that you’ve had a bad experience with a married man?’
‘Well, it wasn’t bad at the time,’ said Libby candidly, ‘just disappointing to discover he was married. He was an Italian POW.’
‘You are a startling young woman,’ Ghulam said, his face creasing in amusement. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever had such a frank conversation with someone I’ve only known for a couple of hours – especially a woman.’
‘Not what you expected of a memsahib?’ Libby teased.
He laughed. ‘Not in the least. But I can’t deny I find it most refreshing.’
She eyed him. ‘You only invited me out to lunch to keep your sister happy, didn’t you?’
He hesitated and then nodded. Libby felt a flicker of disappointment but tried not to let it show.
‘Well, I only accepted because I was curious about seeing bits of Calcutta I’ve never been taken to before.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then neither of us have any expectations apart from a good lunch.’
He ordered tea and drew out his cigarettes, offering one to Libby. She took one and he lit hers and then his. Their conversation turned to his work at the newspaper.
Libby asked, ‘So what is the latest news? I’ve been hearing terrible rumours about unrest in the Punjab. I hope it’s all been exaggerated.’
Ghulam’s expression turned grim. ‘It’s not, I’m afraid. Amritsar and Lahore are going up in flames. Sikhs against Muslims. The Punjabi prime minister, who was trying to hold together a coalition, has resigned.’
Libby saw the tension in his face. ‘What about your own people?’
He frowned. ‘Meaning?’
‘Your family,’ said Libby. ‘Even if you don’t speak to them any more, you must be worried.’
He sat back and blew out smoke. ‘Yes, I worry. I have nephews and nieces . . .’ He ran his fingers through his hair in agitation.
‘Have you had news of them?’ asked Libby.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve been trying to ring Rafi in Gulgat to see if he has heard anything.’
‘Is that the telephone call you were on when I was waiting for you?’
He shot her a look. ‘Yes. You’re perceptive.’
‘And?’
‘He knows less than I do,’ said Ghulam impatiently, ‘stuck away in the jungle.’
‘At least he will be safe there – and Sophie too.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ghulam.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Even in Gulgat things are changing, it seems. The old Rajah died last year and the new prince doesn’t seem as well disposed towards Rafi as his uncle was.’ Ghulam’s lip curled. ‘He’s one of those princely leeches who bleed the people dry in order to finance a life of excess. Always getting his photo in the papers for attending society parties – usually with some film star on his arm.’
‘Yes.’ Ghulam looked surprised. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I know of him,’ said Libby, thinking of Adela’s confession. It made her angry to think that her cousin had been a victim of Sanjay’s selfish behaviour. ‘I don’t like the sound of him at all. Is Rafi’s job in danger?’
Ghulam shrugged. ‘Possibly. He was very guarded on the phone but recently I got a letter from him, posted in Shillong, that said for the first time he’s thinking seriously of returning to the Punjab – that’s if Pakistan becomes a reality.’
‘Really?’ Libby was shocked. ‘But Rafi’s not religious and he’s lived in Gulgat for over twenty years!’
‘That’s his choice,’ said Ghulam.
‘But you don’t agree with him,’ Libby guessed.
‘I think it’s a disastrous idea. We need Muslims like Rafi to stay and help build the new India.’
Libby stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and sipped at the hot sweet tea. She thought again how war and division had ruptured families all over the world, including her own. Was India heading for civil war now? The thought filled her with anxiety.
‘Will the violence spread to Calcutta again?’ she asked. ‘What are you hearing?’
He lit a second cigarette from the stub of his first, inhaled deeply and gave her a direct look. ‘We’ve had one thing in our favour these past months – Gandhi has been living in Bengal. Just having that man here seems to calm people’s nerves, it’s quite extraordinary. Last summer, we communists went out on the streets to show our solidarity – Muslims and Hindus together – but we couldn’t stop the butchery. But Gandhi with his spinning wheel and hunger strikes somehow takes the poison out of our veins.’
‘So that should give us optimism?’ Libby pressed.
‘Except Gandhi is leaving and going west to try and bring calm. We need a thousand Gandhis. I fear the violence is going to escalate again.’
‘I don’t understand why it should suddenly get worse now that the British government has announced they are definitely leaving.’
‘Power and fear,’ said Ghulam starkly. ‘Everyone is afraid and all sides are stoking up that fear to gain the upper hand in the negotiations. Just like last year, people are already leaving their homes and moving into villages or parts of the city to be with their own kind.’
‘Perhaps it will make a difference having a change of viceroy,’ Libby suggested. ‘Mountbatten knows India well from the War and he might be able to bring the differing sides together. He’s due here any day now, isn’t he?’
Ghulam gave her an impatient look. ‘A change of Britisher at the top is not the solution. It’s far too late for that.’
Libby went quiet; she didn’t want to antagonise him again. She already regretted her high-handed remarks at Amelia Buildings about Indians being to blame for the escalating violence. Up till now, she had enjoyed every minute of his company. She hadn’t had such interesting conversation in a long time, and never with such a fascinating man – this former revolutionary with the mesmerising green eyes.
Ghulam scrutinised her. She felt her heart pound faster under his gaze. He stubbed out his cigarette and began fishing out money for the bill. Libby felt a wave of disappointment that the lunch was coming to an abrupt end.
‘Let me contribute something,’ she said.
‘Certainly not.’
‘I’ve really enjoyed this,’ said Libby. ‘The meal – and talking to you.’
Abruptly he asked, ‘Have you ever had cake from Nahoum’s Confectionery?’
‘No.’
‘Then you must. You cannot leave Hogg’s Market without a visit to the Jewish bakery. That’s if you have room for something sweet?’
Libby smiled. ‘I always have room for cake.’
‘Then we share something else in common apart from socialism and Indian Independence,’ he said with a grin.
Nahoum’s had the biggest selection of cakes and pastries that Libby had ever set eyes on: cheesecakes, lemon sponges, Madeira slices, seed cakes and plum puddings. She took ages to decide what to choose and in the end Ghulam picked a selection and had them boxed up. When Libby gasped over the range of boiled sweets, he insisted on buying lemon drops and mint humbugs too.
‘No toffees as good as your Scottish ones,’ he said with a quick smile.
‘They didn’t last long then?’ Libby guessed. He shook his head. ‘Then I’ll get Mother to send some more out.’
To her delight, Ghulam didn’t seem in any hurry to get back to work. He suggested they walk through to the Maidan but she feared bumping into some of her aunt’s friends watching cricket at Eden Gardens. She didn’t want him subjected to any snide remarks or hostile looks.
‘I’d rather you showed me more of the streets around here,’ Libby replied.
They walked north, through a maze of lanes and side streets bustling with life and noise. Some of the buildings must once have been palatial with their intricately carved doorways and balconies but their façades were now crumbling and dirty. This was old Calcutta. They passed a steaming laundry, the rooftop with drying linen flapping like a ship in sail. Chinese merchants were selling paper lanterns and foodstuffs next to a dairy and piggery. Banging and hammering came from a row of leather workshops and cobblers. They got some curious looks as they walked by.
‘Don’t worry, they’ll just think I’m your bearer carrying your packages,’ Ghulam murmured.
Libby had a strong desire to slip her arm through his to show that they were equals but was worried he might rebuff such a gesture.
Eventually emerging on to a broader street, Libby recognised the road that led down to the Duff Church.
‘Let’s go this way,’ said Libby. ‘I know somewhere quiet to sit down.’
A few minutes later, they were turning left and passing through an iron gate into the church garden. The whitewashed building was shuttered and locked but the steps were in the shade of tall palm trees. Libby climbed on to the top one.
She smiled. ‘Time for eating cake, don’t you think?’
Ghulam followed, pulling off his jacket. ‘Sit on this if you like.’
‘I’ll share it with you,’ she said, spreading it out and settling on to one half. She kicked off her sandals and wriggled her toes, enjoying the feel of the warm stone on the soles of her feet.
Ghulam untied the string and opened the box. ‘You go first.’
She picked out a slice of walnut cake and bit into it. The icing was made with dark cane sugar, a taste that made her think of holidays in St Abbs and afternoon tea with her Watson relations. She closed her eyes. ‘Mmm, I haven’t tasted cake this good in years.’
She let it melt on her tongue and then took another bite, larger this time. Opening her eyes, she saw that Ghulam was watching her. Libby felt suddenly aware of how close they were sitting and how alone they were. Birds chirruped drowsily in the surrounding trees. Her heart began a slow thud; she could feel perspiration break out on her forehead and between her breasts.
She pushed untidy hair behind her ear. ‘What cake are you eating?’ she asked, her voice sounding breathless.
‘Lemon,’ he said. ‘Want to try it?’
Libby nodded. He offered his half-eaten cake. She leant forward and bit into it. The pulse in her throat made it suddenly difficult to swallow. The tart lemon juice flooded her mouth and mingled with the sweetness already there.
‘Good,’ she whispered and held her slice out to him. ‘Try this at the same time.’
Ghulam hesitated. She thought she had never seen eyes quite so compelling, the green almost translucent and framed by such dark lashes. Then he steadied her hand in his and took a bite from the walnut cake. Libby could hardly breathe. Her hand trembled in his. Was he feeling the same intensity as she was? He pulled his hand away and munched the cake with a frown of concentration. She wanted to push the wayward strand of hair out of his eyes and run her fingers over his uneven features – the broken nose and the dimpled chin that was already showing dark bristles.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
She went a guilty puce. ‘About nice things like cake.’
He swallowed down his mouthful and smiled. ‘Time for another then.’
They sat in the shade munching cake until the box was empty, while Libby told him about long-ago tea parties on the cliffs at St Abbs, of swimming in the sea and playing cricket with her brothers.
‘I have to admit,’ said Ghulam, ‘there’s one thing I will thank the Britishers for when they leave and that’s cricket.’
‘Not cake?’ Libby teased.
‘The Indians have been making sweetmeats for far longer,’ he teased back. ‘So no; you memsahibs can’t claim to have invented cake.’
Libby gave a raucous laugh, wondering if it was possible to be intoxicated by sugar. She felt lightheaded.
He stood up. ‘I really should be getting back to the office.’
‘Pity,’ said Libby.
He offered his hand and pulled her to her feet. For a brief moment, they didn’t let go. He leant towards her and Libby held her breath. But he bent to retrieve his jacket. She hid her disappointment by scrambling for her shoes.
As they gained the street again, Ghulam hailed a rickshaw. ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Libby, ‘and get the tram back from town.’
They sat close together but the intense intimacy of the quiet garden had evaporated. Libby sensed that his mind was already preoccupied with work. He must be so worried about the reports of communal violence coming out of the Punjab.
Disembarking at Chowringhee Square, Libby said, ‘Thank you for lunch – and cake – I’ve really enjoyed it all.’
Ghulam nodded and gave a distracted smile. ‘Remember to call on my sister before you go to Assam.’
Libby felt dashed; he was not going to make another assignation. As far as Ghulam was concerned, he had made amends for his rudeness and done his duty to his sister.
‘Would you and Fatima come to my birthday party?’ Libby blurted out. ‘It’s next Tuesday. At my uncle’s house. Nothing grand. But it’s a way of seeing my friends before I leave.’
He looked astonished. ‘I can’t imagine your uncle and aunt will want the likes of me at your party, Miss Robson.’
‘Uncle Johnny won’t mind in the least – and anyway the guest list is up to me, not my aunt. And Fatima deserves a night out – you told me she works too hard.’
He looked undecided.
She pressed him. ‘Please come. You won’t be the only Indians there, I can promise you that.’
‘Well, if you really want—’
‘Yes I do.’ Libby cut in. ‘I’ll send an invitation with the details. I don’t want any presents – just a bit of fun.’
His mouth twitched in amusement. ‘Well, if my sister wants to go, then I shall bring her.’
‘Good.’ Libby smiled. ‘And thank you again for today.’
He raised a hand in farewell and strode off into the building. Libby could imagine her mother’s disapproval at Ghulam leaving her unchaperoned in the street and expected to find her own way home. But Libby was pleased. It showed Ghulam thought of them as equal – and Libby as mature and independent.
With a tremor of excitement, she set off down the street to catch a tram. Something unexpected had happened today. She had gone half reluctantly to meet Ghulam Khan, convinced he would be as dismissive of her as he had been on their first meeting. But she had had the most stimulating lunchtime and afternoon since coming to Calcutta. Libby had revelled in his company and was fairly sure he had enjoyed hers. Why else would he have suggested extending their time together by going to the cake shop and then showing her more of central Calcutta?
Yet, sitting in the Duff Church garden, she had felt something deeper: a powerful physical attraction. Had Ghulam felt anything similar? As the tram swayed, she went over in her mind every scrap of conversation, gesture and look she could recall. She felt exhilarated. Soon she would have the party to look forward to – not only the excitement of being reunited with her adored father, but also the anticipation of seeing Ghulam again.
It was only when she alighted in leafy Alipore that it occurred to Libby: for the whole afternoon she hadn’t thought of George once.