The Call of the Thunder Dragon (41 page)

There was a picture on the wall
amongst the dedications to the founders of the club. A portrait of
Robert Burns.

It was proposed by some Scot,
that Burns, on the one hand, helped prop-up a sense of Scottish
identity in the cultural hierarchies of the British Empire, but
Burns had also inspired Bengali and other Indian writers to value
their own native language and cultural traditions, thereby
indirectly promoting self-determination. The idea that this might
be suggesting that one day they'd fight for independence was a
touch too far to the ears of British investors and current club
members alike.

However, for the Indian armies
who’d marched across the Asian continent or the men who’d ridden in
the cotton fields with the workers and learnt the language of the
locals; they said to hear the echo of Burns across the foreign
fields, made them feel like brothers.

The songs of Robert Burns could be heard as far a
field
as the Sind, the Punjab,
Kashmir and Bengal.
In native tongues, ‘A man’s a man for a’
that’, Burns’ democratic song was still the same. As it was the
same for the men of George Heriot’s school who followed years later
and still they sang the same coming back after the Great War. As
did the Sikhs and another Indians who fought in France.

The staff of the club was as
multicultural as the guests and sporting visitors. The colour of
faces changed from table to table, and the epicanthic fold of eye
changed from Porter to chef and from houseboy to honoured guest.
However, sitting at their own tables or in sporting teams it was
easy to see that the white Europeans were still in the majority of
members and the multi-cultural the majority as staff.

Zam found the place unlike
anything she’d seen before but correctly gathered that the people
there only came together to play games and sports or dine and drink
tea. It made her wonder how they came to have so much time and
enough money, to afford the lush surroundings of the club; or
afford the horses, or polo sticks, or golf clubs, cricket bats,
tennis rackets and so many types of different kinds of shoes?

Falstaff and herself were still
in their flying clothes. However, flying was accepted as a modern
sport. So even though they were slightly dirty and smelling of oil,
they were accepted as easily as the couple in tennis shirts or the
men in blazers and white slacks.

As the teapots and saucers
rattled around her and the room buzzed with polite conversation.
The drone of the Engine still made her ears ring. Zam tried to
slide her hands out of the thick sleeves enough to grasp her
delicate tea cup. She leaned forward, rising her chin over the big
jutting collar of the coat. Her lip quivering as it reached towards
the rim of the cup. She sipped at first then drank deeply. The hot
tea spread warmth once swallowed, refreshment and a sense of esae
washed over her. She slowly came down to earth. As the ease spread
her dark brown eyes started taking in the new luxurious
surroundings, observing the luxurious room through the steam
curling off her tea and her projecting coat lapels.

Gibbons half-filled his cup with
tea, then lashed in the milk and topped up the cup with four spoons
of white sugar. “You know since leaving the RAF I’ve become a
reight sticky bun merchant!”

Falstaff laughed. “No, you were
always drinking tea and tiffin, Gibby!”

Zam perked up slowly. She
marvelled the rich complexity of everything. The white china was
exquisite and delicate, colourful and polished so it shone. A plate
of sandwiches was brought and cakes. Chocolate and fruit. Zam
suddenly lost her frown, she gave in to the Chocolate, something
she never tried.

“I’ve heard of this. I read about
it in my English books. All English girls like it!” Zam beamed.

Falstaff was forgiven for
frightening her out of her wits, his company, she decided was worth
enduring for chocolate cake.

“So this is what you call Tiffin,
yes?” Zam ventured to join the conversation for the first time.

Falstaff turned to her with a
smile. “Tiffin indeed. A second breakfast, a snack with tea at any
time of the day and I believe the clubhouse is open to members all
day!”

Gibbons smiled, “Have you tried
these little carrot cakes with almonds on? I think its carrot...
Halwa or something? Can’t get enough of them myself! Hey listen,
it’s the biggest night of the year tomorrow. The club always makes
the best of a party and tomorrow will be no exception!”

Falstaff looked at his watch it
was gone five o’clock. “Listen, can we catch up later and sort out
the Caproni tomorrow? Can you recommend anywhere for us to stay and
get cleaned up?”

Gibbons sat thoughtfully for a
moment. “The Manor House is probably still the best. A bit pricey
now mind. I’ve moved out now, but I still breakfast there at least
twice a week. I’ve got a bungalow across town, a tiny place if you
were on your own I’d put you up?” He hesitated to look between
Falstaff and Zam. “But seeing as you are hooked up with a Princess
like Karma, you’ll be looking for something more comfortable?”

Falstaff nodded. “The Manor
sounds good to me.”

Zam nodded in agreement. “Do they
have chocolate cake for breakfast as well?”

Falstaff laughed, “Not normally
but I guess they may do something along those lines.”

Gibbons leaned forward and
whispered. “I know I’ve not heard the whole story yet, John, but
honestly, where do you find them? If the service gave out wings for
this sort of thing, thou’d be a damn GC with thee own harem by
now!”

Falstaff sat straight taken
aback. “To what do, I owe this reputation?”

“Well, you were missing, presumed
dead for over six months after that debacle in Kabul; last time I
saw you, you’d reappeared at RAF Peshawar in the Punjab! You came
out of the mountains with a mad old goat herder, leading a
procession of women for the spring Basant Festival!”

“There was nothing like you’re
suggesting going on!” Falstaff retorted.

“What were you doing then?”
Gibbons asked.

Zam put down her empty cake plate
and leaned forward hear his answer.

“I’d made them a kite!” Falstaff
defended himself, with a grin. “It was a good one too! Some of them
were very grateful, that much is true, but you do exaggerate
Gibbs!”

Zam glanced at Gibbs and back to
Falstaff, she could read him well enough to know his thoughts.

“How so, were they grateful?
Isn’t that the point of Mr. Gibbs question?” Zam leaned on
Falstaff’s arm, looking into his eye. She had a faint smirk on her
lips and wanted to know more.

Falstaff reddened. “No, the point
is, Gibbs has offered to use his contacts to get us the best room
in Jorhat!” Falstaff picked up his napkin and dusted the crumbs off
his lap. “I think it’s time we moved on?”

Abe and Ono watched Falstaff and
his woman from their table across the room.

“We are sure it is them?” Ono
asked.

“Hai, Falstaff has signed in this
Princess ‘Zam’ into the guest book, along with himself,” Maka
answered confidently.

“Good, we should follow them and
see where they are staying, but I guess that Gibbon-San will drive
them to Jorhat. Abe, find a steward quickly, get us a cab, or a
horse and trap. Go on ahead if you have to, but don’t lose sight of
him!”

Abe left the table hurriedly. He
past Falstaff close enough to touch him in the hallway, where they
had paused to reclaim their bags. Outside he frantically tried to
find a driver. Despite his shaking in fear, from being so close to
Falstaff, the barber found a driver quickly enough. Many waited on
the off chance of picking up a planter or two to take them back
home to their bungalows or their hostels.

Ono followed shortly and boarded
the horse trap. While Abe made out that they were part of a party
going into town. They hung on until Gibbons’ battered Vauxhall
Cadet Saloon rolled around the corner with Falstaff and the woman
in the back. Then they followed.

The driver of their trap or Tanga
as they were called in India, pulled out after the car, slowly at
first then the Assam driver sitting behind them enthusiastically
whipped up the horses to follow. The trap, painted in the
traditional distinctive yellow, cleaned and polished by the driver
every day as he waited for fares, sped smoothly along. The spokes
of the wheels blurred into a hazy yellow as the horses iron-shod
hooves hit the asphalt road hurrying after the Saloon.

Ono, next to Abe, leaned forward
watching the car carefully, his eyes were steady as if he were
fixing to shoot the car driver and Falstaff then and there. Ono’s
focus alarmed Abe, who shuddered and gripped the handrail
tighter.

Gibbs drove the saloon rather
predictably straight to the Thengal Manor House next to Jorhat
railway station. The best and longest established hotel in
Jorhat.

After a moment, Ono urged the
driver on around the corner, then they alighted themselves, paying
the driver off. They walked themselves into town, heading for their
own hotel.

“In the morning, you shall keep
watch. I will be around, watching as well!” Ono said
menacingly.

Abe nodded in silence as they
continued towards their hotel. He was out of his depth now, he
struggled to control his fears.

“You know if you want to continue
as an agent for the Japan you must remember who pays you way and
why!” Ono looked at Abe through the corner of his eye. “Stay
focused Abe or I will cast you off.”

Abe nodded. “Hai, master
Ono-Sama!”

“Stick to Chinese, think in
Chinese.” Ono pushed him. “You speak Chinese well, you even have a
Burmese accent? Mine afraid is still Tokyo, I can manage a little
inflection, but that is not what I am good at.”

Abe nodded without replying. He
had heard a graphic description from Colonel Haga-Jin of what Ono
Itchi was good at.

“And if you ever use my name in
public again I will kill you understand?”

Abe nodded, bowing again.
“Gomennsai!”

Falstaff and Zam found the Manor
House as promising as to be expected from a place of such high
reputation. Starting off as a hostel for British tea planters
coming out to oversee the escalation of tea production. The Manor
soon found itself catering to the wealthy plantation owners
themselves, who expected finer dining. Then came more of the
plantation managers they employed and the rich sultans and princess
keenly sharing the rising tea profits. The Manor catered to them
all.

The Manor was soon cited as one
of India's finest hotels; now a destination for tea planters and
tourists alike. Falstaff and Zam were not interested in the
afternoon tea with scones at that moment. Afternoon tea was served
daily in Daisy's Music Room, where musical hall and American Jazz
music dating back to the 1920’s was stacked atop a piano lighted by
candelabras. Today a radio buzzed softly to the sound of ‘All India
Radio’. The big brown and bronze faced radio was playing a
recording of ‘Shadows On The Moon’, from the film The Girl of the
Golden West.

Falstaff hummed along as the pair
of flyers waited for service, more interested in hot baths and bed,
than another afternoon tea.

Princess Zam was registered
quickly enough, with Gibbons’ prompting. The staff were immediately
impressed by her impressive title and the official scroll she
carried. Zam proudly lifted her chin and primly narrowed her eyes
and mouth, at their reaction. She felt immensely pleased with
herself. It was in stark contrast to the many nights she’d spent
wrapped in a blanket, alone in a tent on the Tea and Horse trails
over the mountains. The Hindu desk manager accepted her status
without question, despite the loose leather riding boots, oily
woollen overcoat, Japanese paratrooper helmet and goggles. He did
question the single member of her entourage, hovering impatiently
behind with the bags.

The clerk insisted on an address
for Falstaff, his passport was accepted, British subjects required
no visa to enter the Empire. However, the hotel register needed
completion, every guest came from somewhere and had an address to
forward their bills and mail to. The register may also be subject
to inspection by the police if they insisted.

“Oh, for Christ sake!” Falstaff
blurted, angry at the efficiency. “Does it matter?”

Gibbons hissed at Falstaff,
trying to calm him. “Isn’t there anywhere you call base, employer
or home now?”

“No, I could give General Chiang
Kai-Shek’s but I don’t know it. I guess I’m working to for Zam now
if push comes to shove?” Falstaff announced rather too loudly.
“What the hell? Do they think I’m a bum or something? Maybe they
believe i've just decided to elope with her because she’s got a
pretty nose?”

Gibbons cautioned Falstaff to be
quiet. “I’ll explain! Pardon me, Mr. Falstaff Wild is a pilot, as
you can see from his passport he is an officer and is now in the
employ of Princess Karma Zam of Paro, in Bhutan. It is to there
they are travelling?”

The Hindu looked from Zam to
Falstaff seemingly bewildered by the role reversal.

A couple of passers-by had
stopped to gawk, their curiosity piqued by the raised voices. Most
moved on wafting the smell of oil and gasoline away from their
noses with fans.

The dime a dozen Asian girl, in
stained pants and ragged woollen overcoat; and the tall white man
standing over her with bags in each hand. Not a typical Raj couple,
not at the Manor house, maybe more like a wedding couple in Port
Blair or Sarawak or Kowloon maybe; but not amongst the tea planters
growing the Englishman’s favorite breakfast tea?

Falstaff looked around aware of
the sniffs. He’d dealt with this before; he could leave or storm
out, but Gibbs hadn’t suggested any other place to go.