Meet Me in Bombay by Jenny Ashcroft

Author:Jenny Ashcroft [Ashcroft, Jenny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780751573206
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2019-11-25T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

When he came to his senses again, he was limping on a leafy floor, stooped over, clutching his arm, trees all around. He looked up, at the movement of the branches, and heard no rustle, only ringing. Beneath his torn, bare feet, the ground vibrated. He wasn’t sure what made it do that.

He wore only trousers, a ripped vest. I should have a jacket, he thought, and it felt important, but he didn’t know why, or where his jacket could be. When he touched his head – which hurt, very much; almost as much as his arm, his ribs and feet – his hand came away red.

Blood, he thought. I’m bleeding.

Again, he couldn’t think why he was doing that.

Or what was making it so very hard for him to breathe.

His arm didn’t hang properly from his shoulder. He held it to stop it falling. He had gashes all over his hands. He could taste blood in his mouth as well. His vest was covered in it. I need to find someone to help me, he thought, and kept on stumbling forward, for he didn’t know how long, until darkness fell, and he came to a soundless road that was jammed with other bleeding, stumbling men, and vehicles bearing red crosses, out of which jumped a tired-looking woman who looked him in the eye, caught him as he fell forwards, and yelled for a stretcher.

She’s helping me, he thought. Good. That’s good.

Where am I?

‘What’s your name?’ the woman asked him. He watched her lips form the words.

He stared.

She asked him again.

He shook his head, awful realisation dawning on him.

He didn’t know his name.

To his horror, he had absolutely no idea who he was.

The telegrams arrived at once in Bombay, just as the whole family was sitting down to lunch on the veranda, a sleeping Iris in her perambulator included. They were all subdued. Richard had heard, barely an hour before, that sweet, keen, eager-to-please Fraser Keaton had been declared as missing in action, presumed dead. Much as they were all trying to reassure him that there was still hope (if they’ve found no body, how can anyone know?) he couldn’t seem to muster any, but instead kept berating himself for not managing to persuade Fraser against enlisting.

Even with the sadness of poor Fraser though, Maddy suspected nothing when the telegraph boy arrived at the villa. He came so frequently, after all, with wires for her father, and for her from Luke. She felt no real disquiet as Ahmed showed him out through the drawing room doors, only a lift of anticipation, foolish hope, that Luke had written again.

But the boy asked for Della, not her. Della, who was expecting Jeff to join them for lunch any minute, never got wires, but whose mother had assured her by letter that she’d send one the second there was any word of Peter.

Della stood warily, pushing her chair back, taking the paper from the boy. Maddy watched her every movement, a slow shiver of fear snaking down her spine.

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