Boats on Land: A Collection of Short Stories Read Online Free Page A

while their mother dished out pork stew and steaming rice. Everyone fell quiet for grace. Their father could be strict about these things.
    For a few moments, only his voice echoed in the room—‘Bless us, O Lord, for these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Help us to be mindful of all our blessings, and the needs of those who have less.’
    In chorus, the family murmured ‘Amen’.
    Halfway through the meal, when chatter and gentle teasing had resumed, an urgent knocking sounded on the door. It was a helper from the Smithson household.
    ‘Please,’ he uttered, out of breath, ‘could the doctor come at once to Kut Madan?’
    As Doctor Wallang washed his hands, his children fetched his bag and his wife brought him a shawl. ‘Who knows how late you’ll be there,’ she said. He rushed out of the house with a familiar tug in his stomach. No matter how long he’d been doing this, it always made him nervous—the sudden summon of illness or death. As they hurried down the road, he asked the helper what had happened. The torch in the doctor’s hand threw a feeble jaundiced light on rough mud and stone. Around them the wind blew over the barren hills like a restless spirit.
    ‘The memsahib, she has taken ill. The young one.’
    It would have been difficult to imagine Mrs Smithson—a tall, thin woman with a steely tongue and constitution—being anything apart from ruthlessly fit. The ‘young one’, he presumed, was Miss Lucy, Mrs Smithson’s orphaned niece from England. She’d arrived earlier that year with the monsoon. The doctor had seen her a few times out riding alone, and occasionally with Jonah.
    The bungalow at Kut Madan lay ensconced in a thick forest of pine, brooding in the darkness like a mournful ruin. To the back, the trees spilled over a sudden sharp cliff that gave the place its name—‘the end of land’. There were dim lantern lights flickering at several windows, the household was up and waiting. Jonah opened the door.
    ‘Thank you for coming, doctor.’ He was twenty-two, yet carried the formal, sombre manners of a much older man. As he was ushered in, the doctor noticed that Jonah’s limp had worsened—he’d advised him to ride less often; clearly the boy hadn’t listened.
    In the living room, Mr Smithson’s expansive frame stood in front of the fire, while the lady of the house sat still and silent by the window.
    ‘We’re sorry to have disturbed your evening, doctor. I know you close the clinic at five.’ Mr Smithson’s usually genial manner was subdued, despite the trace of whisky on his breath.
    ‘It’s no trouble, Sahib Smith, how can I help?’
    ‘It’s Lucy…’ he began, and faltered.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Well…’
    ‘What is the matter with her?’ Mr Smithson glanced at his son.
    ‘That’s the problem, we’re not quite sure…’ answered Jonah. ‘She is—’
    He was interrupted by his mother. ‘The girl has been complaining of headaches and dizzy spells.’
    The doctor turned. ‘For how long now?’
    ‘About a week.’
    The doctor didn’t ask why he hadn’t been summoned earlier; despite his profession, in a white household, it wasn’t his place to do so.
    The family lapsed into silence. Jonah spoke first, ‘Perhaps you ought to see her.’
    Mrs Smithson said she’d check on the girl and left the room. A burning log crackled and spat in the fireplace. Jonah and his father stood quiet as ghosts.
    ‘Sahib Smith, was there anything that happened today, that made you send for me?’
    Mr Smithson moved to a side table and poured himself another drink.
    ‘Lucy’s been a little under the weather lately…I put it down to pining for something or other, you know young people these days. You see, there was a small matter concerning the stable lad—’
    ‘Father, it isn’t necessary to bring that up.’ Jonah’s tone was sharp, and his face, the doctor noticed, had reddened.
    But the elder gentleman continued, unmindful. He was a little