Free A House Called Askival by Merryn Glover

dear,’ she gushed, all scent and tinkling pearls.
    â€˜Indeed!’ said the Colonel as he snapped his heels and bent to kiss her hand. Leota cackled and led them through to the living room,James slipping in behind. On a clear day, the French windows offered views across the Dehra Dun valley to the Siwalik Hills and sometimes a glimpse of the plains beyond. But tonight there was just cloud and rain. A leak in the roof pinged drops into a dekchi on the floor and a small puddle was forming on a windowsill. James felt the dampness of the air and remembered the Colonel’s tales of the good old Rawley’s roaring fires and hot chocolates shot with whisky. Now an iron chula squatted in front of the fireplace, rumbling and spitting and giving off an acrid smell as its wet wood struggled to burn.
    Stanley appeared in the archway from his office and gave both guests a solemn nod and a handshake. James had never seen him kiss any woman – not even Leota – and was glad of it. He attempted to take the same approach, but found himself crushed against Mrs Bunce’s bosom as she planted a lipsticky peck. Fighting the urge to wipe his cheek, he took the Colonel’s out-thrust hand and was relieved to see no sign of the stick. After supper, he would show Bunce the newly mounted buck’s head on his bedroom wall.
    â€˜Evening, James!’ Bunce barked. ‘Good day at school?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ He tried to find a place for his hands. At fifteen, he had become less and less at home in his own body as it kept outgrowing his clothes and his control. He was like a creature trapped, struggling not so much to get out of the cage as to master it. At last the adults settled into the fraying armchairs and he could sit down, hunkering back into his seat, hands tucked round his sides, feet sticking out like boats.
    â€˜How are things, Colonel?’ asked Leota as she moved amongst them with a tray of orange squash.
    â€˜Bloody awful.’ He knocked back his drink like a vodka and banged the glass down.
    James shot a look at his father.
    â€˜Just terrible,’ murmured Mrs Bunce, looking into her squash and shaking her head.
    â€˜Why ever?’ asked Leota. ‘What’s happened?’
    â€˜I’m afraid the whole country’s gone mad,’ said Bunce. ‘Well, both countries, to be precise. It’s a bloody disaster.’
    Stanley cleared his throat. ‘Things are getting worse?’
    â€˜Well, all the Mohammedans are trying to get into their Promised Land and all the Hindus and Sikhs are trying to come the other way, and they’re rather colliding in the middle. Not a pretty sight, I can assure you.’
    He took peanuts from a bowl near him and tossed them one by one into his mouth.
    Mrs Bunce sighed. ‘We knew partition was never going to work,’ she said, as if she herself had reluctantly allowed it. ‘Just like independence, really.’
    â€˜They’ve only had it for three weeks.’ Stanley looked at her across his massive hands, fingertips pressed together. ‘It’s a little early to judge, don’t you think?’
    James slid his gaze from his father to the Bunces and back. Stanley never moderated his words for the sake of diplomacy. To the contrary, he seemed to regard it his God-given calling to wield the Sword of Truth whenever he caught a whiff of falsehood, half-truth or lame argument. James had felt its cut many times and had learnt extreme caution in the choosing of words. It had made him slow of speech, stuttering, strangled. Most often he sheltered in silence.
    â€˜Supper ready, Memsahib,’ announced Aziz, appearing in the archway between dining and living rooms, his apron a well-scrubbed white and tied neatly in a bow. It was his custom, whenever there was company, to discard the grease-splattered apron he’d worn for cooking, and to don a clean one for serving the meal. It matched his pearly teeth and the