They left the room, closing the door behind them, and stood together at the head of the stairs before descending. ‘Almost impossible,’ thought Joe, ‘to come downstairs from a bedroom floor and not look guilty! Perhaps we should come down hand in hand? That would baffle and enrage Rathmore! Baffle and enrage Burroughs too. Leave them all with the impression that Lily and I have spent the last hour in bed together!’ And with a sudden stab to the heart, he thought, ‘How I wish it were true!’ In a moment of mutual solidarity and bravado, they linked arms and went downstairs.
As they walked across the square towards the durbar hall, the insistent notes of a bugle call floated over the fort and, to amuse and distract Lily, Joe sang the words the soldiery had long ago fitted to the Officers’ Mess Call:
‘Officers’ wives have puddings and pies
But sergeants’ wives have skilly,
And the private’s wife has nothing at all
To fill her poor little belly.’
‘I know how she feels! Do you realize, Joe, I’ve had nothing to eat for over a day? What I wouldn’t give for a bowlful of skilly – whatever that is!’
‘It’s grits – I think you’d call it grits,’ said Joe. ‘But didn’t they give you food at Mahdan Khotal? The Scouts and I were only there for about three hours but they sent us three lots of refreshment in that time. Surely . . .?’
‘Oh, they kept sending me plates of this and that but I couldn’t eat. When someone you like’s screaming in agony and probably dying in the next room it sort of shuts down your appetite.’
‘We may find the next hour has much the same effect,’ said Joe lugubriously as they arrived at the open door of the durbar hall.
They stood for a moment in the doorway allowing their eyes to adjust to the darker interior. Already seated around a table which had been set out in the centre of the room, James and Betty waited side by side, ready to defy the world. A small white face peered out from Betty’s lap and snarled. Minto, too, was ready as always to defy the world. Edwin Burroughs, bored and bleak, was giving nothing away; Iskander sat with blank face and expressionless eyes; Fred, as ever cheerful, smiled his pleasure at seeing them. Grace, looking exhausted and wary, just managed a wan smile of welcome. At the head of the table with his back to them was a grey-haired and solid figure. All turned to greet them as they stepped into the room.
‘Well, there you are!’ came an amiable and gravelly voice and the figure at the head of the table turned. Not the Commissioner. Much, much worse! Inevitably perhaps: Sir George.
‘There now,’ he said, his face wreathed in avuncular smiles. ‘There now! The two people above all whom I wanted to see! Sandilands, the Harbinger of Doom and Miss Coblenz, the Sower of Discord. The fact they should both be under restraint can hardly have escaped anybody but we will first see what they have to say. Now, come and sit by me, Miss Coblenz, and may I say how well it suits you to have been out in the sun? Sandilands, why don’t you sit next to your charge? And now we only await Lord Rathmore.’
He turned again to Lily and said conversationally, ‘I had a telephone call from your esteemed father yesterday morning. How on earth he got through I can’t imagine but there you are – that’s Americans for you. And didn’t they after all invent the electric telephone? Or have I got that wrong? He asked how you were. I didn’t know how you were! So I said, “Fine!” He then asked where you were. I didn’t know that either so I said you’d gone to spend the weekend with friends. That’s rather a loose description of your recent excursion into the inaccessible interior but I didn’t think the time was ripe for a larger account. I’ll just pause there and ask you the question – “How are you?”’
‘Starving!’ said Lily with spirit. ‘Haven’t had anything to eat for twenty-four hours and not much to drink.’
‘Help yourself, Lily,’ said Betty, suddenly contrite. ‘There are sandwiches. Not very exotic, I’m afraid. I cut them myself. I didn’t know how many to cut for.’ And a very English-looking plate of hard-boiled egg and cress, cucumber and corned beef, lamb and pickle sandwiches was hurried down the table to Lily.
‘Aw! Wow! It’s not puddings and pies but it shore beats skilly,’ said Lily, helping herself.
‘In a manner of speaking, Sir George,’ said Joe with a helpful smile, ‘you could well say that Lily had spent the weekend in the country with friends. She was never for a moment out of the sight of Iskander or Iskander’s sister and later Grace and myself. Lord Rathmore too, of course, was of the party.’