Chapter One
Jasmine Dent let her head fall back against the pillows
and closed her eyes. Morphine coats the mind like fuzz on
a peach, she thought sleepily, and smiled a little at her
metaphor. For a while she floated between sleeping and
waking, aware of faint sounds drifting in through the open
window, aware of the sunlight flowing across the foot of
her bed, but unable to rouse herself.
Her earliest memories were of heat and dust, and the
unseasonable warmth of the April afternoon conjured up
smells and sounds that danced in her mind like long-
forgotten wraiths. Jasmine wondered if the long, slow
hours of her childhood lay buried somewhere in the cells
of her brain, waiting to explode upon her consciousness
with that particular lucidity attributed to the memories
of the dying.
She was born in India, in Mayapore, a child of the
dissolution of the Raj. Her father, a minor civil servant,
had sat out the war in an obscure office. In 1947, he had
chosen to stay on in India, scraping a living from his ICS
pension.
Of her mother she had little recollection. Five years
after Jasmine's birth, she had borne Theo and passed away,
making as little fuss in dying as she had in living. She
left behind only a faint scent of English roses that
mingled in Jasmine's mind with the click of closing
shutters and the sound of insects singing.
A soft thump on the bed jerked Jasmine's mind back to
consciousness. She lifted her hand and buried her fingers
in Sidhi's plush coat, opening her eyes to gaze at her
fingers, the knobby joints held together by fragile
bridges of skin and muscle. The cat's body, a black splash
against the red-orange of the coverlet, vibrated against
her hip.
After a few moments Jasmine gave the cat's sleek head one
last stroke and maneuvered herself into a sitting position
on the edge of the bed, her fingers automatically checking
the catheter in her chest. Installing a hospital bed in
the sitting room had eliminated the claustrophobia she'd
felt as she became confined for longer periods to the
small bedroom. Surrounded by her things, with the large
windows open to the garden and the afternoon sun, the
shrinking of her world seemed more bearable.
Tea first, then whatever she could manage of the dinner
Meg left, and afterwards she could settle down for the
evening with the telly. Plan in small increments, giving
equal weight to each event -- that was the technique she
had adopted for getting through the day.
She levered herself up from the bed and shuffled toward
the kitchen, wrapping about her the brilliant colors of an
Indian silk caftan. No drab British flannels for her --
only now the folds of the caftan hung on her like washing
hung out on a line. Some accident of genetics had endowed
her with an appearance more exotic than her English
parentage warranted -- the dark hair and eyes and delicate
frame had made her an object of derision with the English
schoolgirls remaining in Calcutta -- but now, with the
dark hair cropped short and the eyes enormous in her thin
face, she looked elfin, and in spite of her illness,
younger than her years.
She put the kettle on to boil and leaned against the
kitchen windowsill, pushing the casement out and peering
into the garden below.
She was not disappointed. The Major, clippers in hand,
patrolled the postage-stamp garden in his uniform of
baggy, gray cardigan and flannels, ready to pluck out any
insubordinate sprig. He looked up and raised his clippers
in salute. Jasmine mimed "Cup of tea?" When he nodded
acceptance she returned to the hob and moved carefully
through the ritual of making tea.
Jasmine carried the mugs out to the steps that led from
her flat down to the garden. The Major had the basement
flat and he considered the garden his territory. She and
Duncan, in the flat above hers, were only privileged
spectators. The planks of the top step grated against her
bones as she eased into a sitting position.
The Major climbed the steps and sat beside her, accepting
his cup with a grunt. "Lovely day," he said by way of
thanks. "Like to think it would last." He sipped his tea,
making a small swishing sound through his mustache. "You
been keeping all right today?" He glanced at her for a
second only, his attention drawn back to the rioting
daffodils and tulips.
"Yes," Jasmine answered, smiling, for the Major was a man
of few words under the best of circumstances. Those brief
comments were his equivalent of a monologue, and his usual
query was the only reference he ever made to her illness.
They drank in silence, the tea warming them as much as the
late afternoon sun soaking into their skins, until Jasmine
spoke. "I don't think I've ever seen the garden look as
lovely as it has this spring, Major. Is it just that I
appreciate things more these days, or is it really more
beautiful this year?"
"Hummff," he muttered into his cup, then cleared his
throat for the difficult business of replying. "Could be.
Weather's been bonny enough." He frowned and ran his
fingers over the tips of his clippers, checking for
rust. "Tulips're almost gone, though." The tulips wouldn't
be allowed to linger past their prime. At the first fallen
petal the Major would sever heads from stalks with a
quick, merciful slash.
Jasmine's mouth twitched at the thought -- too bad there
was no one to perform such a service for her. She herself
had failed in the final determination, whether from
cowardice or courage, she couldn't say. And Meg ...