Read Online How to Disappear by Duncan Fallowell - Free Book Online Page B

the lodge and into the lane for his exercise run. In that lodge lived a defunct Maharajah and his Welsh wife but we never saw them, not once. As for the Ratan Tata Holiday Home itself, it had originally been called Harrow-on-the-Hill and the property of a lady called Miss Cunliffe. You see how the lines of life branch out all over the place. But I shall have to resist going in quest of this long-dead Miss Cunliffe. I really would like to know who she was, how she came to live here, and what happened to her. Perhaps she was nobody and nothing happened to her, though instinct – or is it wishful thinking? – tells me that there is a curious story there too. Ah, yes, she gave birth to a mixed-race child who was sent to school in Singapore and Miss Cunliffe sought out her relations in Torquay but they didn’t click and the mixed-race child, having become a wealthy businessman in Australia, bought a seaside flat for his mother in Sydney where she ended her days as the bridge partner of Lord Beauchamp, a man lately exiled from England in a homosexual scandal…
    Booze chits became essential after all and Rita and I invested many hours in pursuit of the Liquor Permit for Temporary Residents and the various signatures and stamps it required. At last the final stamp and signature came down upon it and we were able to proceed. The only place where alcohol could be bought was Uttam’s, the local department store. Excitedly clutching our permits, we passed through its menswear department – Suitings. A Gay Selection in Terylene, Terycot, Terywool, and Nylon Bell-Bots. Modern Novelties of Woollen and All Kinds of Hosiery - and upstairs through the women’s department – Sarees Exciting Wide and Fascinating Variety of Fabrics from All Over Indian Parts - to where in the distance a glass altar supported a pyramid of coloured bottles scintillant in the blood-red shafts of sunset. It was ten to six. We’d made it with only moments to spare. Rita and I collapsed into laughter at the relief and absurdity of it all, breaking at the knees, howling into walls, holding each other. The assistant was not in the leastly disconcerted – obviously this is a common reaction – and waited patiently with his head on one side, looking at us with shining eyes, smiling.
    â€˜What was that stuff you mentioned? Madras brandy, was it?’
    â€˜Yes, but it had a special name. I might recognise the bottle.’
    She turned to the assistant. ‘How much can we have?’
    â€˜One month’s supply. Six bottles of spirits. Each.’
    They were all Indian cognacs, whiskies, gins, etc. but turned out to be very tasty. As we left the counter bent by four carrier bags of alcohol, the assistant said ‘Enjoy the party’ with a modest wave. On the way back we diverted to St Stephen’s churchyard, opened a bottle of plum brandy and had a slug beneath Indian oaks. Rita rapidly grew sentimental. ‘Oh, darling, we should’ve invited that assistant to our party.’
    â€˜We’re not having a party.’
    â€˜We should’ve invited him anyway,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he wanted to come.’
    â€˜I think he was just being nice.’
    â€˜Did you fancy him?’
    â€˜Yes, I did actually.’
    â€˜Oh lover of the Nile.’ And she pulled my head into her comforting breasts, which was quite a habit of hers.
    When we arrived back, Sarah said ‘You’re late’ but we fixed her a brandy & soda and she softened up.
    Dolores made good her intention and on our last night we did dine with the Maclaine-Clarkes at the Club, bequeathing them our remaining bottles. Consequently we all got very drunk. But I do retain some faded notes and can piece it together.
    The rendezvous was in Colonel Jago’s Room, technically out of bounds to women but rules tumbled before the wild and sooty laughter of Dolores and the gentle chuckles of her husband – yes, Richard was