Hot Water Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

been a hero, like Grandad. In Donald’s sense of the word they both were. Men in the front line of action.
    â€˜You see, Duke . . .’ He leant forward; alcohol had made him confiding. ‘I come from a family of what you Americans would call achievers. I mean, not grand or anything like that. Rather the contrary; middling middle-class, quite ordinary really. But men who stretched themselves to the full and got things done.’
    And whose women followed them, he added wordlessly, watching Christine wandering off in the direction of the french windows. How could he explain his need to protect her, and her corresponding urge to liberate herself from his manly support? Here in Pakistan he had a sales-force of thirty-five men; there were slums through which, as they walked, she must surely cling to his arm; there were signposts in Urdu script which neither of them could understand. She was no longer striding her known English streets. It was not subservience he wanted but some recognition, long lost, that he had skills to respect. He wanted to take care of her. He wanted no women friends around her, either, to raise their eyebrows pityingly at this concept. He wanted to recapture her. And if that was impossible, he wanted them to be lost together.
    And another thing, he wanted to say. We don’t seem to be having a child.
    When he knew him better, surely he could confide in Duke. The man was like an oak, strong and weathered. He had lived but he was somehow innocent too, a big simple man. He looked fifty but he would look the same way for ever. And he could take his drink; Donald’s head was already swimming. What had Christine said once? When you like someone you make them a hero; it’s your short cut so you needn’t work them out. Adding silently, no doubt: you like to build them up because you’re so weak yourself.
    Shamime approached. ‘You’ll all come to the beach on Saturday, won’t you?’
    â€˜Saturday?’ said Duke.
    â€˜We’re having a few friends to our hovel.’ She laid her hand on Duke’s arm. ‘We’re not letting you pine away.’
    â€˜What’s the hovel?’ asked Donald.
    â€˜Our little beach hut. You must get a beach hut, Donald.’
    Aziz appeared at her side with a plate of food. Oily spiced meats spread into egg mayonnaise; their British Council hosts laid on a multinational menu.
    â€˜We’ll have some Scotch,’ he said. ‘The real McCoy.’ With a charmingly quizzical smile he looked at his glass, which held the local stuff.
    How did they get it, thought Donald, in this Muslim place? Connections, connections. Their uncle was a minister.
    Shamime turned to Duke. ‘I’ve found your perfect hotel receptionist. Aziz.’ She pointed to her brother. ‘He’d be wonderful. He looks gorgeous and he’s such a dummy.’
    Aziz smiled. The international type, he looked the part. He wore well-pressed slacks and a cotton sports shirt, the pocket jutting with his packet of Rothmans.
    â€˜It’d keep him out of mischief,’ said Shamime. ‘He spends all his time at the Club, or in his den fiddling with his veeseeyah.’
    A pause. ‘His what?’ asked Donald. He pictured some local artifact, like a string of beads.
    â€˜V.C.R. Video.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    â€˜He’s got some quite nice films.
Cabaret, Butch Cassidy
, that thing with Barbra Streisand in it.’
    â€˜A tiny bit more up-to-date’, said Aziz, ‘than the offerings of your kind British Council.’ He speared a prawn.
    Donald prickled. He thought of men like his grandfather risking their lives for this country. Keeping the peace, digging canals to bring fertility to what was then known as India, making laws that were still maintained as the arbiters of sense. All so the likes of Aziz – then considered a native – could now have a driver waiting outside in the Mercedes.
    Shamime leant