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accent – in deference.’
    â€˜Does she have a German accent?’
    â€˜Didn’t you speak to her?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜The BBC were filming here and she shot a coolie out of a fruit tree to show off.’
    Something about the soldier – he didn’t look absolutely solid. His thin, smart wife nibbled on a dry biscuit. ‘I’m responsible for bringing Mervyn Peake to Muscat & Oman,’ she said. ‘They’re all madly reading Gormenghast now in the desert. Would you like a sandwich?’
    â€˜This place is awfully good,’ said the soldier.
    â€˜But I must say, I’d love a drink,’ said his wife. We all agreed we’d love a drink but the bar wasn’t open. I can’t recall exactly how the liquor-allowance system applied to bars and hotels but I do know it wasn’t straightforward. As for Gormenghast I can see how it might chime with readers who live in the Gulf, a region where, intellectually, the future is knocking ever more loudly on a worm-eaten door. A note preserved from this occasion says ‘Sarah lit a cigarette and fixed her eyes upon a tureen of lilies’. Odd the things one sometimes jots down.
    A couple of days afterwards we were provided with an even more copious tea at Dolores and Richard’s. What I put in my notebook later was: -
    â€˜Collected by their good-looking driver in black Ford Zephyr. They live in a house called St Mary’s at Fernhill, a little way past the mothballed Mysore Summer Palace. We were served three varieties of bread, five of jam, two of fruitcake, two of Madeira Cake, plus biscuits, on English china, with French silver, all heaving on a table of Kashmir walnut, and served by a relaxed and charming Indian footman. But the atmosphere in the house was disjointed. Richard was polite but in low spirits and did not join us at the table. He slunk out to the ferns of the greenhouse and played 78 rpm. records on his gramophone. One was Does the Chewing-Gum Lose its Flavour on the Bedpost Overnight. A mild, quiet man who must feel beached by history. The British ruled India but they did not colonise it. After independence virtually all the British left. Indians and Pakistanis subsequently came to Britain which they did not rule but which they colonised.’
    Dolores flapped her hands expressively and said she was trying to write something about Sir David Ochterlony. ‘I can’t get going, I can’t get going!’
    I said what a wonderful name it was – presumably one of those Parsi names, or Sephardic Jewish names like Sas-soon, but it turned out to be Scottish. Dolores said ‘Spinach is a Parsi word.’
    I thought Dolores could be Parsi but she didn’t let anything slip. She said the name ‘Bapsy Pavry’ rang a bell.
    â€˜Ask Lin Townsend’s wife – she’s a Parsi.’
    â€˜Is she?’
    â€˜We’ve not met his wife,’ said Sarah.
    â€˜No, she’s kept in the background!’ and Dolores laughed raucously.
    â€˜But my leg healed completely,’ said Rita, rooting for him.
    â€˜Why isn’t Lin welcome at the Club?’
    â€˜Because he sticks up our names in public for nonpayment of library subscriptions. He stuck my name up! I was furious! Oh, let’s have a wonderful dinner at the Club before you leave. I’ve been trying to persuade Richard to buy a house in Scotland. I think it’s important for a man to have property in his own country, don’t you?’
    The driver dropped us back in the Zephyr. He was charming in a slightly cocky way and Lin told us afterwards that Dolores was in love with him. Inkie ran past us in the drive but stopped, jogging on the spot to say hullo. Rita said she’d heard there was a dance at the Military Academy at Wellington and Inkie, already out of breath, said ‘I’ll have to come back at you, dear lady, on that one.’ Rita gave him a little wave as he lolloped past