“I?” said the woman. “I?”
“Yes, you, Khabradji.”
“But I am here!”
“And he is not. But you know where he is, Khabradji.”
She looked at the omda.
“That is what I have come to declare, omda,” she said, and sat down.
Hands pushed Khabradji forward.
“She lies, omda. It is not so!”
Amina rose again.
“You were in the house with him.”
“Not so!”
“It was so. I saw your footprints.”
“What!” said Herbert and I simultaneously.
“They will confirm it,” said Amina, turning to us.
I stood up.
“Certainly, we saw footprints in the sand,” I said. “But whose they were-?”
“We thought they might be of some strange beast!” said Herbert excitedly.
“Strange beast?” said the omda, raising an eyebrow.
“They were large and-”
“Large, certainly,” said the omda, looking at Khabradji. Everyone laughed. She looked self-conscious. Evidently her size was a by-word in the village.
“- but no strange beast!” said the omda.
The crowd laughed again.
Herbert stood up.
“It was a mistake,” he said. “And yet in that mistake truth lies. Khabradji, you were certainly in the house. We saw your footprints. You came right into the room where we were sitting. And now, Khabradji, I have a question for you: did you take the bottle?”
“Bottle?” said the omda.
“Bottle?” said Amina.
Herbert turned to her-
“I know, alas, that you are familiar with bottles, Amina. Because of your husband. But was not Khabradji, too? So let me ask my question again: did you take the bottle that was on the table?”
“I – I -” stuttered Khabradji.
“I think you did, Khabradji.”
“Well, what if I did?”
“What did you do with it?”
“Do with it? I – I drank it.”
There was an amazed laugh from the crowd.
“No, you didn’t. You took it out and gave it to Amina’s husband.”
“What if I did?” muttered Khabradji. “What if I did?”
“Where is he, Khabradji? cried Amina suddenly. “Give him back to me!”
Khabradji seemed to shake herself.
“Give him back?” she said. “That I cannot.”
She sat down, as if she had said all she was going to.
I rose from my place.
“But, Khabradji,” I said, “that is not all, is it? You gave him the drink, yes; and then what?”
“I do not know,” muttered Khabradji.
“I do. When he had drunk and was stupefied, you killed him.”
“Killed him!”
There was a gasp of horror from the crowd.
“Killed him?” cried Amina, and made to throw herself at her rival. Hands held her back.
Khabradji now rose in her turn.
“Yes,” she said, calmly. “I killed him. With my hoe. While he lay dulled and sleeping.” She looked at Amina. “I was not going to let you take him back. While I was in the field, I saw him running and guessed where he was going. That night I went to the farm-house myself and found him. I pleaded with him to come back to me. But he would not and spoke bad words. I was angry and rushed from him. But then I looked into the house and saw the bottle and the evil thought came to me: why should not I be revenged? So I took the bottle to him and let him drink; and then I killed him.”
As we were leaving, I heard one villager say to another:
“What was all that about a beast?”
“There wasn’t one.”
“Odd that they should think there was. Strange minds these Englishmen have!”
“Superstition,” said the other villager. “That’s the problem.”
All in all it was an odd Christmas indeed. But it had one effect that was lasting. It had taken my mind back to another time when my life had become strangely bound up with that of a poor fugitive. Indeed, it was that which had ultimately led to my flight to Egypt. Reflecting on that, I realized that I had left unfinished business behind me. It occurred to me that the time had come to return to England and address it. Perhaps, too – I confess it – it was the children’s Christmas stockings, bringing home to me that there was more to life than work in a Counting House. Anyway, I went back to England, expecting not great things now but very little: finding, however, when I got there more than I had ever dared to expect.
GLAZED by Danuta Reah
Anthony Richardson woke up in the spare bedroom, aware that the mattress was not the well-sprung one he was accustomed to. His back was aching. He climbed out of bed and opened the curtains, looking out on to the grey November day.
He pulled on his dressing gown and tiptoed barefoot to the marital bedroom. He pushed the door open silently. Molly was asleep, her face hidden, her red hair spilling across the pillow. Her hair had lost its brightness over the years, and her face, though it still had its delicate prettiness, was creased from sleep. At one time, seeing her like that would have been a powerful incentive for him to climb back into the bed they had shared for over twenty years, but not any more.
Quietly, he collected his clothes from the wardrobe. He would shower in the other bathroom rather than risk waking her. He’d stayed too late the night before with Olivia, falling asleep next to her perfumed softness. “You see,” she’d whispered as he climbed reluctantly out of her bed, “It’s time to let Molly know. It’s for the best, darling. I wouldn’t want to keep you in a dead marriage if it was me.”
He sighed. He still cared for Molly. Of course he did. But… The image of Olivia, fair-haired, beautiful, and most of all young rose up in front of him.
Anthony Richardson had met Molly when she was twenty-one. He was handsome, in his thirties, sophisticated and successful with his own chain of exclusive designer stores. She was a graduate from St Martin’s College, with a degree in ceramics and a talent for design that was yet to be fully recognized. She was beautiful, of course. She had to be. Anything less than beautiful would have done. And she wasn’t just beautiful, she was one of the most talented ceramicists he had ever met. Her designs had a quality he had never seen before, designs that her current employer had dismissed because people who want cups with feet on them and smiling teapots tend to be limited in their appreciation of style. It was an added advantage that she was very young and not very confident.
It was serendipity. Molly needed a Svengali. Anthony needed her talent. His business, though successful, had reached a plateau. He worked by finding good designs and importing them, but a lot of other people were doing the same thing and there was nothing to distinguish his company, Richardson Design, from the mass. The continuing success of his shops depended on his having something new, something distinctive, something that no one else had. And in Molly, he had found it.
Molly Norman Ceramics became the cornerstone of his company, Richardson Design. RD, the discreet silver logo that marked his company, became a byword for the best in fine china.
Anthony was a good husband. He kept the business running well and provided a comfortable, even luxurious, home for her. And though any man has a need for variety that even a young, talented and beautiful wife can’t entirely fulfil, he kept his infidelities low key and away from home.
The marriage was a success. Except that they didn’t have children. Not really. Molly had got pregnant a few years into their marriage but the child was born defective – Down’s Syndrome, the doctors said. A Mongol. Anthony believed in calling a spade a spade. He had made sure that there were no more children. He wanted no more defectives in his family.
Molly made a reasonable job of raising the boy who was now fourteen, a lumbering presence in the house. She insisted on private schooling, which was an irony Anthony found hard to bear. A real son would have gone to Eton of course, but Dominic… “He’s a lot more able that you give him credit for,” Molly had said sharply. “I want him to be able to earn some kind of a living.” In fact, the youth would be a drain on his resources forever.