Apart from a close examination of the thickness, height and strength of the crenellated and loop-holed walls, the Afghans’ attention was caught by the sports facilities. Some of these (stage managed by James, Joe guessed) were being actively demonstrated by teams of Scouts who were obviously enjoying playing to an audience. ‘This,’ said James unnecessarily, ‘is our cricket pitch. And that our hockey field. The Scouts play cricket but the Afghanis don’t. We’re hoping we can change that. All play hockey, of course, and basketball.’
Grace Holbrook, it seemed, was holding the whole party together. She was just as at home with the Afghani escort from Kabul as with the Pathan Scouts themselves; just as at home with the imperial establishment as with Lily Coblenz. Interested and competent, she was clearly enjoying her tour of the fort, asking sensible questions about the water supply and the irrigation system, admiring the dairy herd and making suggestions for the planting of a second orchard.
The inspection wound on its way until James was able to say, ‘And this we’re really proud of! This is our poultry yard. We’ve found that Leghorns seem to do best. This is Achmed, our head poultryman.’ Joe turned to introduce to the party an appreciative Pathan and spoke to him at length in Pushtu, listening and translating his reply. ‘We have problems,’ he said. ‘Wild pheasants raiding our poultry yard! For example – look at that thing!’ He drew attention to a gaudy pheasant casually seated on a nearby roof. ‘As soon as our backs are turned he’ll come down like a wolf on the fold!’
‘Why don’t you just shoot him?’ came Lily’s eager voice. ‘Why don’t you let me shoot him? Go on, James! I wish you would!’ And, turning to Zeman, ‘Tell him to let me have ago!’
Zeman laughed. ‘Go on, Lindsay! Let her have a go. See if she can do it. Every woman in my village could do it. Go on, Miss Coblenz – for the honour of the great American Republic! Slay and spare not!’
‘This is not the OK Corral, Miss Coblenz,’ said James, smiling with difficulty, ‘this is almost a war zone. Any rifle shot heard in the vicinity of the fort evokes a military response. As you can probably understand.’
Zeman looked around him with a wide gesture. ‘But all the officers who could be expected to react are here present,’ he said slyly. ‘No harm, surely, in loosing off one round? Himalayan pheasant aren’t built to withstand rifle fire. One shot should do it,’ he added, cocking a conspiratorial eyebrow at Lily.
James nodded to Joe and, deeply reluctant but unable to dodge the challenge, Joe took a rifle from a nearby Scout and handed it to Lily. ‘That’s the safety catch,’ he began. ‘And remember once the bullet has left the rifle it travels for about a mile which is why, on the whole, we don’t gun down marauding wild fowl with express rifles but I suppose it’s safe enough while the condemned has its back to a rock face. Be careful now – that thing has a kick like a mule!’
Flushed and excited, Lily shrugged him aside, brought the rifle up to her shoulder and fired. In a cartwheel of feathers and squawks the pheasant virtually disintegrated. Amidst general applause, a Scout brought the battered body back and proffered it to Lily.
‘Jeez!’ said Lily, surreptitiously rubbing her shoulder. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’
‘Put a tail feather in your hat,’ suggested Lord Rathmore.
‘Get yourself photographed with your quarry,’ said Grace. ‘That’s what most shikari who come up here do.’
‘I should send it down to the kitchen,’ said Fred Moore-Simpson, laughing. ‘Waste not, want not! Tell them to serve it up for dinner tonight.’
‘Or what’s left of it,’ said Rathmore.
James took a look round, mentally calling the roll. ‘Someone missing,’ he said. And then, ‘Where’s Burroughs?’
‘He had to leave us,’ said Fred. ‘He’ll be flat on his back by now, drinking a little and thinking a lot and yearning for Delhi. Poor old sod.’
At the end of what had been a long day, a day in which Betty Lindsay had revised her seating plans at least half a dozen times, she surveyed her final arrangements. Not bad, she decided. Not perfect but the best that this incongruous mob could possibly supply. The men of course had done a splendid job and really the Pathan feast laid out in the durbar hall was very glamorous and impressive. Pathans were surprising. A warrior race indeed and, if she was to believe all she was told, treacherous, vengeful and ruthless, yet they could spend happy hours decorating a dinner table and to a standard that would put a Home Counties Women’s Institute to shame. Thick rugs had been spread in the centre of the room and surrounded by tasselled cushions. A white cloth covered the rugs and this was decorated with candles and sprays of blossom and spring flowers. Dishes of Pathan and Persian food were to appear in procession to be set out down the length of the table so that the guests might help themselves. Nervously Betty wondered whether she had remembered to tell everyone to use only their right hand. Yes, she was sure she had.
She stood for a peaceful moment alone to calm herself before the guests arrived in the doorway of the durbar hall enjoying its unusual beauty. James had taken her on her own private reconnaissance tour that morning and she remembered his pleasure when she had gasped with delight on entering. ‘Our pride and joy!’ he had said. ‘When I got here this was just a store room with the accumulated rubbish of two thousand years on the floor! About a foot thick, I’d guess. Dust, cigarette ends, goat shit, dead rats, fallen plaster – you can imagine! I set people to clear it up as a fatigue – a punishment, you know – shovelling muck off the floor, scrubbing it down, then we made the most remarkable discovery. Under the debris there was what you now see. I think it’s a Buddhist stupa… second, third century AD? We cleaned it down and whitewashed it and left it to speak for itself.’
Betty looked again at the ancient tiled floor. How would you describe it? Turquoise and gold? No – turquoise and chestnut. Polished, mysterious and serene, the floor reflected the encircling arcade. The last shafts of warm sunshine knifed down from the rim of the dome and seemed to set the floor ashiver. And how sensible, Betty thought, how typical of her husband that he would have left the room free of any Western frippery, content to allow the natural materials and the graceful proportions to make their own statement.
Betty moved aside as a procession of white-clad Pathans arrived carrying in the dinner dishes. Fragrant piles of fluffy rice spiced with saffron and spiked with almonds would surely appeal to everyone. The platters were accompanied by deep dishes of curried lamb, plates of roast chicken, mounds of mint-flavoured meatballs, heaps of flat Peshawar bread and, in pride of place, a roasted, clove-studded fat-tailed sheep. Her party looked good and promising. As the rest of the guests appeared and conversation built up Betty began to enjoy herself. Even her morning sickness had left her though, cautiously, she decided it would be sensible not to accept a glass of champagne from the steward who was handing out Bollinger and took a glass of iced fruit juice instead.
She looked around the table. How plain the British men looked in their white mess jackets, their white shirts, black ties and black trousers when seen alongside the two Pathans. Zeman and Iskander had obviously determined to make an impression, Betty thought gratefully. Already well over six feet, both men had increased their height by the addition of a tall, bright blue turban. They wore baggy blue trousers, white shirts and gold-embroidered waistcoats, red for Zeman and blue for Iskander. Both wore flat gold-embroidered slippers. They settled, cross-legged – obviously at ease – into their appointed places and each took a glass of sherbet.