‘You asked me to let the five of them get away, Miss Paulette and so I did — and you see where it got me?’
But sometimes the exchange would take a softer turn and the argument would end as it had that night, when he had thrown his arms around her and pressed his lips to hers. At times her presence would become so real, even in the cramped circumstances of a flop-house, that he would have to banish her from his mind for fear that the men around him would begin to snigger, as they always did when a man was heard to be working his pump.
But now, blissfully alone, for the first time in months, lying in this soft, yielding bed, there was no need to hold her off: his body seemed to be waking from a long sleep, tingling with an almost forgotten urgency of desire. A voluptuousness like he had not felt in an age took possession of him — it was all too easy to imagine that it was not his own hand but Paulette’s that was snaking into his breeches.
Afterwards, as he was drifting off to sleep he thought, as often before, what a providential thing it was that the Creator, having cursed the race of Man with an unruly and headstrong organ, had also been merciful enough to give him a handy means of taming it.
He slept as soundly as he ever had and on waking in the morning he shared another brief but ecstatic encounter with Paulette before jumping out of bed, wonderfully refreshed. After making himself some tea and porridge he set to work, scouring the foredeck.
The boat had been so long neglected that it was slow going. Around noon a khidmatgar unexpectedly brought him a tray of leftovers from the Burnham bobachee-connuh and he carried it gratefully inside: there was rice, a large bowl of Country Captain, and relishes of all sorts, enough to last him through lunch and supper as well.
He ate his fill, and the drowsiness induced by the rich food prompted him to return to his cabin. It wasn’t with any conscious intention of summoning Paulette that he lay down, but when she came to him, of her own accord, he could see no reason to push her away.
But afterwards, catching sight of the gluey stains on the bedsheets he was stricken with guilt. Pulling up his breeches, he went back to the foredeck and resumed scrubbing.
This part of the boat had no covering or shade and he was soon uncomfortably hot. Removing his shoes, socks and shirt made little difference: all his clothing was soon soaked in sweat; his breeches, already sticky, seemed to be plastered to his skin.
The river, muddy though it was, looked very appealing now. He cast an appraising glance at the Burnham mansion, wondering if anyone would see him if he stripped down to his underwear and jumped into the water.
The house was a long way away, with a wide expanse of lawn in between. It was siesta time and there was not a soul to be seen, in the house or on the lawn. He decided that the chance was worth taking: there were thick rushes along the shore — he was sure to be well hidden.
Tearing off his banyan and breeches he swung himself over the vessel’s side, dressed in nothing but his knee-length drawers. The water was none too deep and refreshingly brisk: it took only a few minutes to cool off.
He was about to pull himself aboard again when he caught sight of the soiled belaying pin, lying on the budgerow’s deck. It occurred to him that this was as good a time as any to give it the polishing it needed: it was within easy reach so he caught hold of it and dropped back into the river. A few steps towards the shore brought him into waist-deep water. He pulled up some rushes and began to scour the pin, his elbow pumping furiously in the water.
The pin was skittle-shaped, of about a handspan’s length: the grease and mud had made it slippery, so he had to press it against his belly with one hand, while scrubbing it with the other.
After several minutes of hard rubbing the encrustation of dirt began to come off at last. The pin was almost clean when a child’s voice broke in. ‘You! You there!’
He was standing with his back to the lawn and was caught unawares. Spinning around, he found himself looking at a little blonde girl, dressed in a white pinafore: he guessed that she was the Burnhams’ daughter.
Suddenly he realized that his chest was naked and that she was staring at it. Flushing in embarrassment, he retreated quickly into deeper water, stopping only when his body was submerged up to the neck. Then he turned to face her: ‘Hello!’
‘Hello.’
She looked at him gravely, cocking her head like a bird: ‘You’d better get out of the water,’ she said. ‘Mama says the river’s filthy and only horrid heathens and Gentoos bathe in it.’
‘Does she?’ he said, in panic. ‘But then you mustn’t tell her you saw me in the river!’
‘Oh, but she knows already. She was watching you with her bring-’em-near, from her bedroom window. I saw her.’
Now another voice came echoing across the lawn: ‘Annabel! Annabel! Oh, you budmash larkin, have you no shame?’
Zachary looked up to see the bonneted figure of Mrs Burnham streaming across the lawn in a torrent of lace and fluttering silk.
He retreated again, sinking even deeper into the water, allowing it to cover him almost to the chin.
‘Oh Annabel! What a bandar you are running out into the hot sun. We’ll be lucky if we’re not roasted half to death!’
Mrs Burnham was running so hard that the bonnet had flown off her head: it would have fallen but for the pink ribbon that held it fast to her neck. Her ringlets were flying around her face and there were bright red spots on both her cheeks.
Chastened though he was, it did not escape Zachary that Mrs Burnham’s appearance was in no small measure enhanced by her flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair. Nor was the Junoesque appeal of her generous bustline entirely lost on him.
‘Oh Annabel!’ With her eyes carefully averted from Zachary, Mrs Burnham clapped her bonnet over her daughter’s face. ‘This budmashee just will not do! Come away, dear. Jaldee!’
Zachary decided now that he had no option but to brazen it out. Adopting as airy a tone as he could muster, he said: ‘Hello there, Mrs Burnham — terribly hot, isn’t it? Thought I’d cool off with a quick bath.’
An outraged quiver went through Mrs Burnham’s body, but she did not turn to look at him. Speaking over her shoulder, through clenched teeth, she said: ‘Surely, Mr Reid, there is some provision for bathing inside the budgerow? And if there is not then some must be made — for we certainly cannot have you wallowing in the mud, like a sunstruck buffalo.’
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Burnham; I didn’t think—’
She cut him off sharply. ‘I must ask you to remember, Mr Reid, that ours is a Christian house and we do expect a certain modesty, in all things …’
Words seemed to fail her here, and she quickened her step, steering her daughter in front of her.
Zachary called out after her rapidly retreating back: ‘I do apologize for my state of undress, Mrs Burnham. Won’t happen again, I promise you.’
He received no answer, for Mrs Burnham and her daughter were already halfway to the house.
*
A fortnight went by without any mention of Bahram’s finances. Through that time not a word was said to Shireen about the state of her husband’s business affairs at the time of his death.
At first Shireen was too distraught to give this any thought. It was only after the initial shock of bereavement had passed that she began to wonder about the silence.
In a family like theirs, where matters of business weighed on every mind, there was something a little unnatural about the studied avoidance of this one topic, especially since it was well known to everyone that Bahram had travelled to China with the avowed intention of taking over the shipping division of Mestrie & Sons, a firm that had been in Shireen’s family for generations.