The Call of the Thunder Dragon (49 page)

“Och’, Why din’ yea’ tell me
earlier? Honestly, what will thee think o’ us sending out the
assistant steward to greet his good self?” The president pushed
through the crowd towards the main door, the disagreement with
Falstaff forgotten, over his concern for etiquette to towards one
of the club’s richest members.

“What a nict for folk to feegit
the right decorum!”

“John, you ought not provoke
people so!” Gibbons advised Falstaff.

“Provoke? He damn near as called
me a coward and Zam a quiff
⁵³
! And there he goes
talking about the correct decorum!”

Gibbons hurriedly left to attend
to his duties leaving Falstaff fuming at the bar. Falstaff ordered
another gin and tonic. He took a deep breath and tried to put the
thought of taking a putter to the president’s arse to teach a real
lesson in manners out of his head. Calm returning, he leaned on the
bar waited for the drink. He felt an aggressive tug on his
sleeve.

“Here! What do you want?”
Falstaff turned frowning.

“Huh, just the kind of manners
one expects from your sort!” It was the president’s son
Quentin.

Falstaff took a deep breath and
sipped his gin and tonic. “What sort is that then?”

“Cowards, we have a thing here at
the club, white feathers, I suppose we could get some chubby cherub
to do that for your send-off if you like?” Quentin had a nasal tone
to his voice and sounded more plummy and English that than the
Indian maître D’ at the Manor House.

“Got that pitch from school did
you? Sounds like Eaton? Am I right?” Falstaff looked him up and
down. “I’m Harrow myself!”

Quentin gave a predictable snort.
“I might have guessed, you fellows aren’t worth…”

Falstaff jumped in, “I won two
boxing matches against Eton, fighting above my weight as well?”

“You’re still a stinking coward.
We three are joining the RAF, so is your friend Gibbons. We can
chase those German fellows back over the Rhine, What? Ha-ha! How
are you going to feel if he buys it and you’re still here, drinking
Gin and tonic! Ha-ha!” He turned to his fellows, snorting and
laughing at his own wit.

“Are you really going to join the
RAF? With that attitude, you’re the ones how are gonna get
themselves killed!” Falstaff retorted, then drained his glass. He
wondered how Zam was getting along without him.

“And how would a coward like you
know? You’ve only shot at those pint-size nips in their toy
aeroplanes! Ha-ha!” Quentin thought he was on a roll.

“Six Airmen, an American, two
Russians, a French man and a German and an Englishman were killed,
shot down by the Japs in the last four months! All my friends,
veterans of the war in China and some of the Great War and Spain!
My friends were all better pilots than you lot will ever be!”
Falstaff’s temper was about to blow again, his eyes locked with
Quentin, who paled stepping back a little.

One of the wags at Quentin’s side
poked another barbed jest at Falstaff. “How come you’re still here
then? Were you afraid to fly or fight there as well? How’d you get
that black eye? Did one of the Japanese monkeys poke you with a
banana?”

Falstaff’s fist shot out grabbing
the wag’s collar pulling him off his feet, with the other hand he
knocked away Quentin’s arm who dropped his glass.

Fortunately, Doctor John appeared
at his side with Zam. “Now, now gentlemen, Falstaff’s already had
enough fighting for one day!”

The old doctor eyed each one of
the boys, who’d know them since they were children. “It was him who
clobbered the assassin who killed our Randhir. That’s how he got
the black eye. Don’t mess with my patient! Right now, he’s got a
broken rib and a dozen other bruises besides and he didn’t run from
that assassin! He’s also the gentleman who saved this lady’s life.
The Princess Karma Zam of Paro, Bhutan. She’s been just telling me
how she saw Falstaff destroy three Japanese aircraft, one them by
ramming it with his own ship? Tell me is that the action of a
coward?”

“The feller’s still a damn
mercenary! Won’t join up to fight his own country though!” The wag
protested, from behind Quentin.

“Enough! Come on John, your lady
wants to play Trumps again and keeps beating me!” The doctor took
Zam’s arm and led her away.

Falstaff went to walk away then
stopped and turned back. “Believe me, the Luftwaffe are the most
experienced pilots in the whole of Europe. Between the last war and
Spanish business, they’ve done more flying, especially in the new
monoplanes! The RAF won’t know what hit ‘em unless they gear up
fast! I hope for your sakes they got some new aircraft or you’re
dead!”

He thought that would be the end
of it, but Quinten carried on.

“It’s all very well for you.
You’ve never flown against them have you?”

“The defence of Madrid? Battle of
Saragossa? Mean anything to you. The Thalmann
Battalion
⁵⁴
; the international
brigades? Did you even know we were fighting against the Condor
legion, Luftwaffe pilots; a 100 sorties a day were launched by the
Nationalists? There was no replacements aircraft for the
republicans; we had less than five aircraft to fly in our group. I
shot down twelve German aircraft in seven months! Is that good
enough for you?”

Without waiting, he turned and
followed Zam. Recalling the horrors of Madrid and the terror
bombing of the city l fresh in his memory he sought out Zam, wanted
her company, the innocent questions, the funny remarks, her
seductive undertone. He wanted her to play those games with
him.

Unfortunately, the news of
Falstaff’s close escape that afternoon spread quickly due to the
squabble. However, the effect was positive due to Randhir Singh’s
popularity. The committee members all wanted to meet Falstaff and
pump his hand, the man who fought Randhir’s killer. If only they
knew thought Falstaff, how much his arms and body hurt? Given the
choice between wrestling the 1939 Jorhat Gymkhana Club Committee
and its club president or and the mystery assassin, he’d choose the
assassin he weighed up, as he shook yet another sweaty palm. At
least, he was there as a guest he reflected happily, as he accepted
the offer of yet another drink.

Exposed to the full glare of the
hospitality Zam was starting to shrink from the rigours of British
society life. The prim, polite and reserved crowd, she had seen at
afternoon tea, were now mixing like family, kissing cheeks and full
of jovial cheer. Having been kissed on the cheek by one too many
red-faced, whiskey smelling, committee members. She took Falstaff’s
arm and remained behind his shoulder, the game of cards abandoned
as evening's guests started to fill the room.

The Jorhat club Burns night was
an annual affair, which had reached the pinnacle of pomp and
circumstance; where the expectations, dropped inhibitions and
consumption of alcohol far exceeded the reality. Added to the mix
was the delight with which the rich sultans, Sikh polo players and
Bangladeshi cricketers. Guests and members such as these were never
turned away, especially the rich sultans.

The running order, written upon
the race board, started with the piping in of the guests. This
started with loud applause and delight as couples split up
throughout the meet and greet, scrambled to find each other. The
senior ladies dragged their husbands from the bar glass in
hand.

The Pipers opened up with ‘Oh but
ye’ve been a lang time a coming’; the tune the band of the
13
^th
Somerset had once played when General Pollock had
relieved Jalalabad, fighting his way through the Khyber Pass with
blasting pipes and drums. After four rounds or more, the Pipers
thankfully called for water, allowing the listeners some
respite.

Immediately an old fiddler and
old gent with a squeeze box jumped up and started playing ‘Right on
to the End of the Road’. Falstaff waltzed Zam into the ballroom,
singing as he went, to find their seats.

“Keep right on to the
end of the road,

Keep right on to the
end,

Tho' the way be long,
let your heart be strong,

Keep right on round
the bend.

Tho' you're tired and
weary still journey on,

Till you come to your
happy abode,

Where all the love
you've been dreaming of

Will be there at the
end of the road!”

Zam twinkled and glittered,
Falstaff stepping her through the waltz, his knees hairy and pale
in kilt contrasting with her beautiful dress.

“Later, I’ll show how a highland
fling is done,” Falstaff promised, finding himself getting into the
mood of the evening, whiskey on his breath.

“During festivals like this, in
Bhutan, we also play Khuru, we fling darts at a target. It is a
favorite sport. I am really good at it!” Zam smiled.

“In that case, you may be
disappointed!” Falstaff whispered.

The Pipers resumed playing, now
lining the hall, as the last guests and the top table containing
the committee were piped in.

It was already starting out to be
a warm night, the windows were opened to let fresh air in and heat
out. The Pipers received a loud applause and the guests settled
down.

Zam and Falstaff found themselves
seated near the top table, away from Gibbons and the friends they’d
made. Initially, Falstaff thought they were off the hook, but then
introductions and questions started a new.

The Chairman thumped the table
for attention. He was ignored, deafened by the expectant chatter
and rattle of whiskey tumblers. The steward brought the gavel,
which the President pounded on the table until silence fell.

The last word came after the
crash of a dropped whiskey glass and Mrs. Anderson berating her
husband. “Oh, James you know what that stuff does to you!”

The laughter and guffaws died
down quickly as the president cautioned his audience that he was
opening with a serious speech. He reminded the guests of the state
of affairs at home. The evening’s progress slowed to crawl as he
fell to reminiscing about his own battles in East Africa, of heavy
fighting in Narobi in ‘17. This continued until he was nudged and
promoted with a list. The President, emotionally mumbled, fumbling
for words as he named those members of the club or their sons, who
had decided to return home and enrol for conscription.

To Falstaff’s surprise, Gibbons’
name was on the roll call after all. The President then called for
a cheer for the volunteers. Falstaff hung his head in deep thought;
his conscience pricked by Gibbons’ sudden change of heart.

The Chairman finished his welcome
with a toast to king and country and then evening began.

The Selkirk Grace was read; a
short prayer to usher in the meal. The prayer also known as Burns'
Grace at Kirkcudbright:

“Some hae meat and
canna eat,

And some wad eat that
want it,

But we hae meat and we
can eat,

And sae the Lord be
thankit.”

At the end of the prayer, a troop
of waiters arrived in pristine white shirts, complete with white
towels over the left arm, with tartan ties and turbans or caps with
check ribbons carrying the soup, the classic Cock’a Leekie.

Falstaff joined the conversation
with his neighbour seated on the opposite side to Zam. A senior
Scottish civil engineer, a senior manager in the Irrawaddy Flotilla
Company, which he boasted, was established in 1865. Its success at
the time was due to the American Civil War. He explained at great
length to Falstaff that the arrival of fleets of boats to India,
they were able to exploit the drop in cotton production in American
due to their civil war. The American slave states were no longer
the main feeder of cotton to Lancashire.

Ever since the Indian Cotton
trade went on shipping bales by the million to Liverpool from
Bombay and other districts, along with timber and Burmese rice. He
explained that they didn’t solely ‘run boats’ but maintained the
waterways, building embankments. For every waterway they re-dug,
protecting the land from floods and the sea water, more land could
be cultivated. Rice production in the last decade was rising to
meet that of the whole world he boasted.

The Irrawaddy Flotilla
Company
⁵⁵
operated the
world’s largest fleet of river boats, including 270 steamboats and
over 350 barges or ‘flats’ which could be towed. It operated on the
Irrawaddy and other rivers in Burma. The digging of embankments and
rebuilding of docks now allowed mail boats over 300 meters long and
able to hold more passengers than the Titanic, although a lot of
these were ‘third’ class accommodations on the deck. The Burmese
steamer business grew, but few benefited directly. The Captains
were British, with crews from Bangladesh.

The Scottish engineer eagerly
told Falstaff how the company was planning to build more airstrips
and was considering expanding its airline services currently flying
from Rangoon.

The clearing of the plates
triggered an expectant murmur of applause. The piping in of the
haggis started with the whining of inflating pipes. There was a
bang on the doors. Two turbaned waiters stepped forward and with a
bow opened the doors. The pipers began ‘Neil Gow’s Farewell to
Whisky’, which was promptly followed by ‘A man’s a man for all
that’.

The guest stood to welcome the
dinner's main course. The procession commenced led by the head
chef, an Englishman in a kilt, white apron and hat. Brandishing a
large wooden spoon. He was followed by the smartly kilted
whisky-bearer; a must to ensure the toasts are well lubricated, in
the role an old veteran Ghurkha. He was the club’s well-loved
assistant chef. He grinned red faced, a teetotal, he was just happy
to be there.