The Call of the Thunder Dragon (48 page)

The headlines continued to catch
his eye. A chap called Churchill had been made the new chief of the
Navy, Falstaff vaguely remembered the name, one his father had
cursed till he was blue in the face over some debacle; where was
it? Falstaff wondered if he ought to have paid more attention to
his old man. Gallipoli, he remembered, but it had not been
mentioned in the newspaper.

Leaning back, he fell asleep,
dreaming a dream he’d not had since before leaving school. A dream
about the day, with the help of his mother, he had taken a flight
in a Royal Aircraft Factory R.E.8, a two-seat reconnaissance
biplane. A surplus war machine that had never made it to
France.

As a boy, he’d dreamt that night
of flying a Sopwith Pup over the fields of France, gunning down the
enemy Hun. Chasing their Red Fokker Dr.1’s across the sky. Suddenly
the dream moved forward to a different time and place.

He could almost hear his own
voice and that of Donald Quittenton-Godfrey, the irritating brat he
called Wally. They were arguing over the performance of the two
aircraft while pouring over Aero magazine or was it an old Sphere
pictorial? He had been obliged to blacken Wally’s eye and gone over
the wall that night, which wasn’t good since Wally had been Head
Boy. His expulsion was immaterial by the time they’d found him he
was working as a motorcycle mechanic near an airfield where he had
already befriended pilots willing to teach him.

Zam pinched John’s toe hard. She
was annoyed, a lady hates to wait. Taking time to get ready was one
thing, but a lady actually being made to wait after the effort of
trying to look her best? Ill-mannered in any culture.

Falstaff woke from his dream with
a start. “You stupid brat I’ll never tell you where the cake is!”
He blinked lost in a daze for a moment, then he saw Zam.

“Gad! I’m sorry, was I snoring?”
Falstaff blushed. “I think was dreaming about something…”

“Cake, do you dream of cake more
than this?” Zam held out her hands, lifted the shawl out slightly
to show her figure.

Falstaff stood up, whistling.
“Only if I can have my cake and eat it? Sweet patootie, you’re a
real fine looking dish!”

“Dish, patootie?” Zam frowned.
“Is it just the food you’re after?”

“No, I mean you look incredible!
I love the hat Bunny!” The hat, Falstaff mused, always makes the
picture!

The dark red Couch hat, wrapped
with shimmering black silk silver brocade, which twinkled when she
moved her head. She wore it pulled down around the back of the
head, just slightly to one side, her long hair done in an
immaculate bun, with little flapper curls around her ears. She’d
applied a little makeup, the first Falstaff had seen her wear. A
dusting of power to make her complexion paler and the tiniest
brushing of pink on her cheeks; finished with an innocent mat red
lipstick on her small rosebud lips.

The cheomong she bought in Simao
fitted her like a glove, it was of an off-red colour, just darker
than her lipstick. The dresses length a little above her ankles
split to the hip, decorated in pale gold with a peacock fanning its
tail out. The split was strategically covered with loose black
lace, woven with silver; placed artistically beneath the peacock's
tail, giving the impression that the peacock's tail was part lace.
As Zam walked or swung her hip, the peacock fanned its tail and
flashed her legs up to the thigh. To top it all, she wore a long
shawl made of the same shimming black silver brocade. Her shoes
were burgundy red, polished leather, low-heeled dancing
slippers.

“You look a picture.” Falstaff
looked at the dark get-up, it was subdued and alluring, then she
moved the peacock wagged its tail, the silver shone and gold
glittered and her legs flashed all the way up the hip.

“Holy cow, you’re going turn some
heads tonight!” Falstaff said breathlessly. “It’s only five
o’clock, we’re going for tiffin before we get picked up by the doc.
You’ll show ‘em down in the daisy’s music room!”

Zam blushed, eyelashes
flickering. “I’ll show them what? What does this mean? I don’t have
to…”

Falstaff. “You’ll show them how
fine you look. I think enough was seen at breakfast yesterday?”

Overall he was relieved, she
might look like she’d stepped out of a Shanghai soap or cigarette
ad, but she’d not gone too far and tried too hard to fit in. He
couldn’t have stood it if she’d gone all herringbone and turned up
in a waisted tweed jacket and a bustle skirt. One thing for sure,
it wasn’t what they were wearing in Bhutan this winter.

There was a knock at the door,
Falstaff’s shoes were returned, shining and smooth.

Falstaff put them on and
stretched. “Are we all ready to go?” Tell you what shall we try out
the camera? Stand over there by the Chaise long!”

Zam stood and posed with one had
on the back of the Chaise long.

“Perfect!” Falstaff grinned, he
imagined Zam with just the shoes and hat.

Zam pursed her lips observing the
less than angelic look on Falstaff’s face.

“Just to be sure, I’m curious,
what are you wearing underneath?” He breathed into her ear.

“The black French knickers I
found at Doss and co.” She made a point to catch his eye as she
looked over her shoulder at him. “And what do you foreign devil’s
wear under these kilts? I’ve heard stories you know?”

“Well, I’m not a Scottish man
myself, but if you have ever seen a fling or jig, like they can
dance on Burns’ night, you’ll be glad we are wearing something
underneath!”

Zam ran her hand up Falstaff's
leg, with a sigh. “Mmm, will you dance?”

Falstaff coughed. “No.”

Chapter Eleven – The Gymkhana Burns

The tea rooms were already
buzzing, many of the guests and long-term residents or visiting
tourists were there preparing for the Burns’ Night at the Gymkhana
club.

There was a good-hearted cheer as
Falstaff entered, owing to his kilt. Those few others brave enough
to don the clannish contrivances waved a cheer of fellowship at
him. He waved and smiled back, basking in the attention. The
younger ladies inclined their heads in admiration. The old ones had
seen it all before and preferred to carry on with tea.

Falstaff, having stolen Zam’s
glory, felt like going back and coughing in the Indian maître D's
ear and asking him to announce her to the room as Princess Karma,
but it was a little late. The diners soon turned from his hairy
legs and woollen kilt, to rose lips and silken hips.

The room stopped and a hush
descended. For those at breakfast the morning before, eyes popped
at the transformation.

Zam walked; that is she walked
straight, small steps, deliberately not swinging her hips, until
the waiter indicated their table and then she circled to her seat
swinging all the way. The silver shimmered and gold lit up, almost
as if it were rippling over her legs.

Mrs. Anderson scowled, the
gentleman she was with was gaping and had let his cake fall off his
fork onto his lap.

Zam took her seat, momentarily a
creak of chairs and clatter of spoons on cups confirmed the rooms
attention was back on tea and tiffin. The buzz of conversation
picked up again. A few envious or leering glances continued,
followed by irritated tugs on husband’s sleeves. For those, not yet
dressed for dinner, the standard had been set high.

Mrs. Anderson scowled. “Oh,
please dear! Do pay attention! Honestly, I’ve waited all week to
speak to you and I can hardly get a word in, it’s as if we’re not
married at all!”

“Penny, I was just asking if that
were the girl the police had to find, the one this Japanese killer
was after?”

“Oh, Frederic you’ve got a
one-track mind, what did I ever see you?” Mrs. Anderson looked at
Falstaff’s table, turning her lighter over and over in her
hand.

19:00 hours Jorhat Gymkhana Club

The doctor picked them up early,
especially employing a local driver for the evening. Doctor John
was wearing a hideous orange and green tartan kilt, with a shiny
black velvet dinner jacket, with a white silk ruffled shirt. He
made a point of showing Zam his handkerchief and shoved it like a
dandy in his top pocket.

“Just in case, there are tears
again my love!” He winked at her. “Tell me, John, have you taught
her any Burns yet?”

“What is Burns?” Zam looked
mortified as if she’d suddenly heard that she was due a test for a
subject she knew nothing. “He is like Brisley, Joyce Lankester? The
missionary from Kalimpong came and taught English at the village,
he lived with my father and taught me English from
Milly-Molly-Mandy!”

“What? Hasn’t this blighter told
you anything about Burns?” Doctor John growled and proceeded to
recite in a deep Scottish burr ‘My luve is like a red red
rose’.

Between the high-pitched giggles
of Zam and Assamese driver, both who snorted every fourth or fifth
giggle, the doctor tried to do the poem justice, but his
melodramatics were too much. Leaving Falstaff the earnest task of
explaining the tradition of the Burns’ Night supper, a night to
celebrate the life and works of the great poet, based on Doctor
John’s ostentatious performance.

“I had no idea English poets,
could be such fun!” Zam said.

“Scottish.” Falstaff corrected,
“How can I explain, it’s like Bhutan and Assam, the Scots and
English are good neighbours, but we both speak the same
language.”

At the club, the early evening
was spent, relaxing awaiting the start of the formal proceedings.
All the club’s staff were on duty and working hard to ensure that
everything went smoothly.

Gibbons had called the groundsmen
in and had them help move and arrange the tables in the main
ballroom and then he had been kept busy ferrying friends in from
town.

Maka as assistant steward was
responsible for making sure that all the additional arrangements
for the Burns’ Night were in place. The chefs and waiters were busy
enough, seeing the huge amount of food that had to be prepared.

It was Gibbs who had first told
Maka-san about the murder of Randhir and the attack on Falstaff.
The club’s committee was appalled that it had happened on the
grounds and were distressed at the loss of such a long-standing
member of the club as Randhir. The Burns’ Night would have to go
perfectly to make up for the unfortunate events.

Maka was torn between action and
responsibility. He chose action and busied himself with the
preparations for Burns night. He thanked his gods that Gibbons was
such a good mechanic. He had forgotten how many pipers he had to
collect from around the town. Most were enthusiastic locals, tea
pickers or simple policemen, but they had all the traditional
bagpipes and kilts, the club committee was generous to its friends
and supporters, raising funds each year to pay the cost and upkeep
of the pipes.

Eventually, Maka could stand it
no more, he tore himself away from the bustle of work, the
polishing of silver trays, the counting of plates and glasses and
went to the radio hidden in a back room of the club and prepared
himself to send the report of failure.

The time passed quickly over Gin
and Tonic or Whiskey and water. Zam was taught how to play trumps
by Doctor John. She smartly beat Falstaff, Gibbons and their new
friends at the club twice in a row.

Rising to refill his glass
Falstaff found himself cornered by the club’s short, portly
president, who had been informed of the attack on Falstaff and the
late sporting shopkeeper.

“It is a real shame, so it is. He
was a member for twenty years, he used to be a great tennis player,
but he excelled at shooting, so he did.” The president pressed
himself on Falstaff, continuing in his thick Scottish burr.

“He was very helpful, a nice
chap. I’d have liked to have thanked him again, considering how he
introduced us to Doctor Levinstone!” Falstaff replied.

“Aye, but I hear you are leaving
soon Mr. Falstaff? Am I right, you’re an ‘R’ ‘A’ ‘F’ man? Like our
Mr Gibbons, come with me I’ll introduce you to my son and his merry
band.”

He took Falstaff into the bar
room busy with arriving guests deep in conversation.

“Here he is! My wee lad, look at
‘im, o’ to look at ‘im now? He and these three ‘ere are set on
goin’ back to bonny Scotland so they are! Owing to the crises! The
lad ‘ere works as a supervisor on the plantation, the others too. I
take it you’ll flying straight back to England tomorrow to joi up
instantly, like?”

“Well, to be honest, I’m sort of
engaged on this trip to Bhutan right now.” Falstaff murmured.

“With that wee strip of a lass?
Is she really a princess lick’they say? Come now, my boy, what’s
moor’ important? A wee chinky lass or ya oon mot’er country?

“I’ve made a commitment to get
her home to her father…”

“Well, let her make her own way!
I hear she’s rich enough to pay ‘so? Where’s your fighting
spirit?”

Falstaff was becoming irritated.
President, he may be, but he’d no right to speak about Zam or
himself that way.

“Now you look here!” He spoke
sternly. “I’m under contract to General Chiang Kai-Shek, leader of
the Nationalists in China, I destroyed twelve Japanese aircraft in
the last four months alone!”

“Och, don’t you go raisin’ ya
voice at me! The Japs? So what! I bet they can’nea fly straight
any’hu!
⁵²
What you should be
thinking aboot is ye own heme country! Yor own damn people! Not
messin’ aboot with this damn wee toy woman o’ yors!” The club
president punctuated his words with a jabbing finger.

Falstaff snarled. “I’ll have you
know that most of the little Japs as you call ‘em, are bigger than
you Glaswegian dwarfs!”

Gibbons come to the rescue of the
President. “Sir, the chief steward, would like a word with you and
the Sultan of Bengal’s car has arrived; the assistant steward is
just discussing a matter with him now?”