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behind the paper. “Bound to be for you.”
    â€œRamsden fifty-eight.” Daisy’s fluting tones came from the hallway. “How nice. Oh, my goodness me, yes! Of course, of course, of course, splendid!” and then after a pause, “Lovely. Lovely! No, no, no, not at all. That’s absolutely perfect.”
    â€œSounds like we’ve won the pools,” Tudor said to me, “but probably just another guest.” He gave a ghastly mock-happy grimace.
    â€œLet me get a pen. You can spell it out. No, no, no, no, no. It’s gone straight into the book.”
    My mother sighed and sagged, walked wearily to the kitchen forthe shepherd’s pie. Tudor threw aside his paper and left the room. He stomped upstairs; a far door slammed.
    â€œI don’t blame him for being cross,” Ci Ci broke the silence that followed. “Not one little bit. She never says no.” She took a nip of the crème de menthe she drank after every meal for her indigestion and carried on eavesdropping.
    â€œAnd you’re from Travancore?” Daisy’s delighted voice drifted back from the hall. “Yes, yes, I know it of course, a wonderful part of the world. How many nights can you manage?”
    Ci Ci was listening avidly, an oily green mark on her lipstick.
    â€œOh Lord in heaven,” she said. “She’s asking Indians to stay now.” She stroked her dog, breathing deeply. “Your aunt Ruth’s in Eastbourne,” she said to Flora. “We can always join her there.” A look of pure panic crossed the girl’s face.
    â€œTudor’s promised the house will be quieter soon, Mummy. Can’t we wait?” Flora turned her pleading eyes to me. “And Kit’s going back to London soon, aren’t you?”
    â€œSoon,” I said, with no clear idea of when.
    â€œSplendid news.” Daisy had returned with the dish of shepherd’s pie in her hand.
    â€œMy Indian friend Neeta Chacko has found a doctor for us. He trained at Barts, postgrad work at Exeter College, sounds absolutely charming. Speaks good English and Malayalam and is happy to stay with us for a few weeks, work on his thesis, and help with the translations. Isn’t that marvelous?” She couldn’t stop smiling.
    â€œWhoopee.” Ci Ci’s voice was slurred. “More cold baths.”
    â€œMummy,” murmured Flora.
    â€œThekkeden.” Daisy spooned a bit of shepherd’s pie onto Ci Ci’s plate. “That’s his surname. Neeta says they’re a Nasrani family, well educated, possibly communists. A lot of people from South India are.”
    Ci Ci’s lip furled. “Indians. Communists. Better and better.”
    â€œMummy!”
    â€œIt will be nice for Tudor to have some male company in the house,” Daisy said, “and critical for us.” She had her scheming face on. “Right, Kit?”
    â€œRight, Daisy.” I smiled back at her, hoping that my mother could cope.
    â€œHe’ll be here next week,” she said, “if the snow has cleared.”

- CHAPTER 3 -
    D aisy decided we should welcome the young doctor with a curry. She had the wheels put back on the Austin and went to Oxford in search of mango chutney. I offered to help my mother in the kitchen because Maud on the previous day had, on doctor’s orders, given in her notice.
    Growing up, I’d seen my mother make the usual ration stodge—rissoles, boiled cabbage, suet puddings—but making curry had a whiff of something secret and special about it, because it only ever happened when we were on our own. Then my mother would get out a battered green tin, uncork the small bottles inside it, and with a finicky, witchy kind of precision that thrilled me, measure out the five or six spices she used. I was under strict instructions never to touch the tin, which she kept in one of the side pockets of her suitcase, or the spices inside them, or to talk