‘That would be telling,’ he said, and winked at me.
‘How do you two know each other?’ I asked Margaret.
‘Mags and I knocked about in India,’ Vaughn said to me. He turned to Margaret and grinned. ‘Are you two ...’ He looked back and forth, an amused expression on his face.
‘Yes, we are, Vaughn, and don’t be such a pig about it,’ Margaret said. I hadn’t seen her like this. She was pleased to be with him, but she was alive with a nervous energy.
‘I’m parched,’ Vaughn said. ‘What are we drinking?’
Perhaps my kind of man after all.
*
Vaughn drove, his scarlet MG rocketing along the lane to Isfield like a fighter plane yearning to leave the runway.
Margaret had jumped in next to Vaughn, which left me in the dickey seat behind them, a space designed for a child at best, more a place to throw your jacket. The windscreen, barely a foot high, may have provided some kind of protection for driver and passenger, but I was squarely in the slipstream. Vaughn and Margaret had a lot of catching up to do, judging by the way they had their heads together. I gave up trying to listen. Easier to sit back and close my eyes.
As we descended the long hill into Isfield, Margaret leant over to Vaughn, her mouth practically touching his ear. He down-shifted, gunned the engine and messed about with the clutch more than necessary, the engine roaring as he used it to slow the car. With a deft flick of the wheel he took the sharp turn, under the arched gatehouse echoing the roar of the engine back to us, through to the long avenue of ancient oaks that led to Margaret’s ancestral home.
19
We sat on a picnic blanket in the walled garden that was now mostly unkempt lawns. The crumbling old brick walls radiated the heat from that day’s sun. Margaret’s cook had left a plate of sandwiches, which we supplemented with a few bottles of wine, dug out from the furthest corner of the cellar. Since I’d got to know Margaret, I’d come to learn that her hospitality invariably left a lot to be desired. Despite inheriting one of the largest houses in Sussex, she was broke. If any one of her creditors knew the full picture there’d be ‘for sale’ signs up in an instant.
‘So how do you know Mags?’ Vaughn asked me.
‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’
‘Well, that,’ he said, leaning over and putting a hand on Margaret’s thigh, ‘is a long and complicated story, which I’ll tell you once we’ve become better friends.’
‘What’s the headline version?’ I asked, with a calm I was surprised I was able to muster.
‘How about ... Bombay Nights ... an epic tale of intrigue, love and lust in the declining days of the Raj.’
Margaret took Vaughn’s hand off her thigh.
‘Vaughn knew my father in Bombay,’ she said.
Vaughn clasped his hands over his heart.
‘Such ruthless brevity,’ he gasped. ‘Somebody top up her wine glass, maybe she’ll find her tongue again. Or maybe somebody else has already found it.’ He winked at me.
I did my best to smile.
Vaughn clicked his fingers as he remembered something. He pointed at Margaret.
‘I say, Miriam’s down for a few days. We’ll have to have you over. She’d love to see you.’
‘What’s she up to nowadays?’ Margaret asked. ‘The last time I saw her she was a child. I can’t imagine her out in the world.’
‘We’ll have a party,’ Vaughn said, ignoring Margaret’s question. ‘Push the boat out. You’re both invited, and
I won’t take no for an answer.’
‘That would be lovely,’ Margaret said.
‘So, Cook,’ Vaughn said to me. ‘What did you make of our show at the church hall?’
He was right to call it a show. It would have been scripted on each side. Carefully crafted and performed, designed to elicit an emotional reaction in an audience.
