Thunder over the Grass

  Thunder over the Grass

  Maliha Anderson, Volume 5

  Steve Turnbull

  Published by Tau Press Ltd, 2017.

  Thunder over the Grass by Steve Turnbull. Second edition July 2016

  Copyright © 2015, 2016 Tau Press Ltd. All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-910342-56-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors' imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval system without permission of the publisher. The moral right of the contributors to be identified as the authors of their work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.

  Published by Tau Press Ltd.

  Cover by Jane Dixon-Smith (jdsmith-design.com).

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Thunder over the Grass (Maliha Anderson, #5)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  About the Author

  Adriel, for remembering things I have forgotten.

  Chapter 1

  i

  The RMS Macedonia thundered across the Indian Ocean on a south-westerly course. Maliha looked out through the panoramic windows that curved around the stern lounge. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke. She rested her hands on the oak rail and felt underneath it. The letters spelling out the shipbuilders Harland & Wolff were there just as they had been little more than a year ago.

  When she had returned from school, on this very ship, she had worn typical European clothes complete with corset. After her encounter with Temperance Williams she had changed to the looser Continental style. When she moved home to Pondicherry she had returned to wearing saris.

  After her grandmother had thrown her out she wondered why she allowed those around her to influence her choice of clothing. As a result she chose to return to the flowing, corset-less French dresses as the most comfortable. She told herself it had nothing to do with Françoise Greaux, or the fact that Valentine could not keep his eyes off her.

  A few hundred feet below the ship the sea glittered in the afternoon sunshine. They passed over dark shapes beneath the water. Whales. She would like to see them close up one day.

  A baby cried behind her and she turned. Barbara Makepeace-Flynn was holding the child, whom Maliha had named Barbara, in her arms. The irony of holding a black babe in her arms was not lost on the older Barbara. She too had been on this ship a year before and had treated Maliha very badly due to her Anglo-Indian birth.

  But Barbara had changed and now she was entirely happy to hold little Baba, despite the disapproving looks of the unenlightened British upper class passengers. For this short journey, at least, they could be like a family even if completely unrelated by birth or marriage.

  “How do you like being a grandmother?” asked Maliha.

  “More like great-grandmother,” said Barbara. She sniffed the air and sighed. “To be frank, Maliha, I am glad I did not have to go through motherhood. Young children can be quite disgusting.” She looked down into the face of the child who had a look of concentration on her face. “Aren’t you, little one? Quite disgusting.”

  Little Barbara groaned with an effort and then squeaked. Amita emerged from deeper within the ship as if she had been summoned, relieved Barbara of the child and took her away.

  Barbara pushed herself to her feet with an effort and took up the walking stick by her chair. She came to the window. The two women exchanged another glance. The previous year it had been Maliha with the stick.

  “I can see why you enjoyed the trip so much,” said Barbara. “It is a relief to lose some of the weight.”

  “We could get you one of the Faraday wheelchairs.”

  Barbara shook her head. “Getting old is something that happens, Maliha. I will accept it with grace.” She laughed. “Better than having a private steam engine. Have you seen them? They are quite ridiculous.”

  Maliha nodded her acceptance. Barbara had become her surrogate mother in the past year. The price of loving someone was knowing that one day they might no longer be around. Maliha just wished she had met Barbara earlier.

  “I think I’ll go and have a lie down, dear.”

  The Sky-liner was fully enclosed with no open decks and it was ventilated to prevent it getting hot inside. However fifty years of living in the heat of Ceylon had built the habit of afternoon naps into Barbara. A habit that she was disinclined to break.

  Although Barbara was very helpful in looking after Baba, her real purpose was to be chaperone to Maliha and Valentine. Their engagement had been announced in The Times but that just meant they would be even more closely spied on by those seeking scandal.

  Maliha was certain there was a journalist in second class following them. Thankfully that meant she was relatively safe here in first class. It was only when they went out together in the public areas that she had to be careful. She was always careful. Valentine was reckless, always wanting to kiss her and touch her, sometimes quite inappropriately.

  He was like a puppy and had to be disciplined repeatedly. She smiled to herself at the image of giving him a solid rap on the nose. Perhaps she should try that.

  She checked her watch, two-thirty. He had wanted her to come and watch him playing squash; there was some sort of tournament going on. She sighed. There were other things she would much rather be doing. Like reading.

  But she had a duty to encourage and praise her puppy. She turned and, taking measured steps with very little bounce in the reduced gravity, headed forward and up to the main deck.

  * * *

  Amita finished changing the baby. They had acquired a separate cabin for her and the child. The baby had just been weaned from the breast so they no longer required the wet nurse. Little Barbara’s care had been given over to Amita in the main. She did not mind, in fact her mistress had very specifically asked first.

  It’s one of the things that made her mistress special: she treated everyone the same no matter where they came from or what they were. It was a morbid thought but Amita knew that she would give her life for her mistress if she were called on to do so.

  The baby was tired and, after a short protest at being laid down, curled up with her thumb firmly in her mouth. Amita put the net over the crib and pulled the cords tight. When in flight the low gravity meant a child could easily throw themselves out of bed. Precautions had to be taken.

  Amita had heard the mem sahib go into her room and, by prior agreement, Amita knocked on the adjoining door.

  “Just leave the door ajar, Amita,” came Barbara’s slightly muffled voice.

  Amita turned the door handle and opened it a little. Then she gathered up her bag and left the room, closing the door with a gentle click.

  She hurried up to the main deck using the servants’ stairs. It was slower than using the main staircase but it would be awkward to meet first—or even second—class passengers. Amita was quite used to verbal abuse but it would not reflect well on her mistress.

  At the top of the stairs she checked her sari and opened the door on to the deck.

  The sun poured through the glass roof that encased the main deck and the promenade above it. This was her first trip on a Sky-Liner. It was true that trains ran faster in their tubes but an atmospheric could not cross the ocean. Nor did
they have wide decks where people walked and talked.

  The fact she received disapproving looks meant nothing as she crossed the deck and gawked at the white-painted metal superstructure, or the glass dome, or the dozens of people laughing and playing, or the children jumping higher than their parents’ heads.

  She saw Maliha seated on a bench overlooking an enclosed squash court. Everything was new to her; Amita knew of tennis and this was like it but the ball bounced off everywhere and the men jumped high and low to hit it. Watching the gentlemen perspire had become her favourite sport in the two days they had been in the air.

  She climbed the stairs next to the bench and made her way to sit beside Maliha who glanced up and smiled as she approached, then turned her attention back to Valentine Crier who somehow looked even more appealing as he sweated.

  The benches were plain wood, though polished and smooth as silk to the touch. She sat demurely with her knees together with her hands clasped over them. She watched the men jumping around inside the arena. From listening to conversations she had learnt this game was exhausting even under normal gravity.

  But played under the effects of a Faraday it must be three or four times more difficult and instead of running the men would launch themselves in long flying leaps. They twisted in mid-air, turned upside down, struck and pushed off from the ceiling. It wore one out just watching it.

  The final whistle was blown. Amita let out her breath in a long sigh.

  Maliha stood up. Amita jumped to her feet beside her, ready to attend.

  “It’s all right, Amita, you can just stay and watch if you like.”

  “Thank you, sahiba.”

  Maliha balanced along the bench to the stairs and went down the steps with a light bouncy step. As she approached the door to the squash court it opened and Valentine came out. Amita watched as Maliha reached out and touched his wrist for a moment before dropping her hand back. He said something to her and smiled.

  Amita was so pleased her mistress had someone she could love—so glad she had realised that Mr Crier was that man because he adored her—and sighed at her own lack of love. Not that she was unaware of her particular difficulties.

  ii

  “Do you want to go and clean up?” Maliha asked.

  Valentine shook his head and drops of perspiration drifted from his hair and sank towards the deck. Maliha took a step back.

  “I should but I’d rather get a drink,” he said. “When do we get in to Johannesburg?”

  “About three tomorrow morning.”

  Maliha heard the click and glanced round. It was the man she was sure was following them barely ten feet away with a Kodak box camera. He had slicked down black hair and wore a brown suit over a creased shirt with no tie. She got a clear look at his face for the first time. She never forgot a face—it was her curse never to forget anything—and this face was one she knew.

  “Ray Jennings,” she hissed. “Come on, Valentine. We’ll get a drink in first class.”

  She stormed off towards the nearest stairwell that would take her down to their deck with Valentine trailing behind.

  * * *

  Valentine’s clothes were sticking to him with the perspiration. He glanced at the man with the camera as he set off after Maliha still gripping the squash racket. The man had a decidedly possessive grin on his face. He must be a member of the press, Valentine concluded. Maliha hated attention and especially from the press.

  She was already through the door and approaching the stairwell when he caught up with her. He was sure she was approaching the stairs far too quickly. There were proprieties in regard to the use of stairs when in low gravity. Both ascending and descending too fast could result in an accidental impact with other passengers, so one always took particular care.

  What one did not do was use the banister rail for support and launch oneself down a flight in a single jump. Which is precisely what Maliha did. Of course under a gravity equivalent, so he understood, of the Moon one did not fall quickly.

  Hers was a graceful descent with her French gown flowing out behind her. Unfortunately it was witnessed by at least five other passengers, three of whom were dressed in a way that marked them as social superiors.

  She landed and bent her knees to absorb the impact.

  The door behind him opened just as she launched herself down the next flight. Valentine turned and saw the “Ray” person coming through with his camera. Maliha might not court publicity but a shot of her flying down the stairs was far from ideal.

  Valentine turned abruptly and stood directly in front of the fellow blocking both his view and his progress.

  “Excuse me!” said Ray and stepped to the side. Valentine went the same way. Ray tried the other direction. Valentine blocked him.

  “Excuse me!” said Ray with more force and pushed Valentine out of the way. Or at least he tried to. Valentine did not move while Ray moved in precisely the other direction and collided against the wall. He lost his balance and sprawled on the floor.

  Valentine relaxed and released his grip on the rail beside him. He followed Ray and grabbed the lapels of his jacket. “Here let me help you up.” He lifted the man and slammed him against the wall. He jammed the handle of his racket into the man’s solar plexus knocking the wind from him.

  “Oh, sorry.” Valentine let Ray down slowly.

  Ray breathed in loudly trying to recover his breath. “You ... you ... can’t ... do ... that. I’m a member of the press.”

  Valentine smiled and gripped the man’s jacket again. He lifted him so only his toes were touching the ground. “Listen to me, Ray whatever-your-name-is. My fiancée doesn’t seem to like you very much. I’ve found her assessment of people’s character to be very accurate which means that I don’t like you either.”

  “I’ll ’ave you for assault. I’ll ’ave you arrested, you see if I don’t.”

  “Ray. You’re not listening. If you disturb the life of my fiancée, or me, or anyone we know again we will have further words.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  Valentine conjured all his experiences of the past year, all the terrible things he had seen done, and the men he had killed. He brought those things, that he kept hidden and suppressed, to the forefront of his mind to add venom to his tone. “You should be,” he said.

  Ray went white.

  Valentine closed his eyes for a moment and pushed those thoughts back to where they belonged. He looked back at Ray and smiled, then let the man down. He held him for a moment while he regained his balance.

  “There now,” said Valentine. “Right as rain. You run along and be sure to remember what I said.”

  Ray scurried out through the door.

  * * *

  “What do you mean ‘he won’t bother me again’?” Maliha said hotly.

  “Keep your voice down, you’ll wake the baby.”

  She fumed and pursed her lips. “Explain yourself.”

  He described his conversation with Ray.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and shook her head. “You idiot.”

  “I don’t appreciate being called an idiot. Especially not by someone whose opinion I admire,” he said. She sighed again and looked over at him.

  “You scared him for now, yes,” she said. “But he’ll get over that and just become even more underhand and sneaky.”

  Valentine came across and knelt down in front of her. He took her hands in his. “How do you even know him?”

  “The thing that happened when I was at school. He was one of the journalists reporting on the deaths. He was the worst; he even took pictures of the girls in the dormitory.”

  “Really? I never heard about that.”

  “No,” she said quietly. “I dealt with it. The girls don’t even know it happened.”

  “But he knows it was you.”

  She nodded.

  “So he’s got it in for you.”

  “And now you too,” she said. “I’m sorry, Valentine.”


  He pulled her down to his level. She resisted up to the moment he kissed her. She savoured his mouth and felt the stress seeping away. He was her therapy. He broke the kiss gently.

  “You know it’s really awkward kissing you when I’m kneeling on the floor like this. It’s giving me a crick in the neck.”

  “I think you probably deserve it.”

  “For being an idiot?”

  “You’re not an idiot. You didn’t know.”

  “Again,” he said. “I didn’t know again. You may be the cleverest person in the world but you really must learn to stop assuming that everyone sees things the way you do.”

  She kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed.

  He leaned over her and kissed her again.

  “Go away, you need to wash.”

  “Will you come and scrub my back?”

  “After we’re married,” she said. “And not a moment before.”

  “A moment after?”

  “Get out, Valentine.”

  The baby started crying in the next room.

  iii

  Although the ship landed early in the morning the Faraday was not disengaged and the first class passengers were not required to disembark until after breakfast.

  Word of Maliha’s rapid descent of the stairs had clearly got around and there were more stares and mutters than usual about their party. The trip was only three days and they had not had time to become acquainted with other passengers. However, a group consisting on an Anglo-Indian with an African child, affianced to a white man who was not of the upper classes (barely even middle class) even when accompanied by a respectable widow of a celebrated General—but wasn’t he the general who scandalously committed suicide after the death of his nurse?

  No. Their party was not one that would attract even the casual friendship of passengers on a journey. No member of the Anderson party was even slightly concerned.

  After breakfast, with their baggage packed, Maliha descended with the others to the disembarkation area and waited for the transport to the new Carlton Hotel. The klaxon sounded, warning of the imminent disengaging of the Faraday device. Maliha made sure that Barbara was sitting down before full gravity returned. Watching her body weakening was hard as she had come to rely on Barbara for so much.