Lowering the field glasses carefully, he finds that his heart is beating very fast. The poor girl. He feels a little bit ashamed of himself for not noticing that she was so unhappy. He hopes he hasn’t made her feel worse. What had she been doing there? And all those crowded, frightened people? They might have been ghosts. He might have seen a ghost ship, it had slipped by so silently. He’ll ask his mother, he tells himself, but then the Narkunda’s steam whistle begins to shriek and the houses and hills start to swing around in front of his eyes. He goes to find his parents, but the memory of what he has seen lingers in an uncomfortable way and he decides not to say anything about it. Perhaps they’ll think he made it up. Perhaps they’ll tell him he shouldn’t have waved at all those dirty people.

‘The captain has told us we can go ashore!’ At tea, Mummy is the happiest that Tom has seen her since they left Bombay. He gathers that the Narkunda is stopping here until tomorrow evening – something administrative, says Major Rowland, and the grown-ups all roll their eyes knowingly. ‘The Parthenon, Jim! We’ll go, of course!’

‘Can’t say I fancy it much,’ says Daddy, cocking his head jovially towards the reverend and his wife, who chuckle in agreement. ‘Seems rather a mess. Frightful mob on the waterfront.’

‘Quite a picture,’ Mrs Woodleigh agrees primly.

‘They are refugees,’ says Mummy, her voice sounding pained. ‘Not a mob. One can’t imagine what they must have been through.’

‘Never had much time for the Classics. Frightfully dull,’ Daddy states blandly, ignoring her.

‘Well, I shall go.’ Mummy sits back, glaring at Daddy. ‘And Tommy shall come with me.’

‘Tommy?’ Daddy laughs, not all that kindly.

‘Yes. Why not? It will be good for him.’

‘I don’t see—’

But the major interrupts, surprisingly deftly. ‘I rather like the idea, myself. If you’d care for an old man’s company, I’d be happy to tag along with you and this young chap.’

‘That would be wonderful, Major.’ Mummy beams at him gratefully.

That seems to settle it, though Mummy and Daddy do not talk very much that evening, and the next morning, Daddy chews his breakfast kedgeree angrily, moustache twitching, eyes fixed on Tommy’s smart tropical-weight blazer, which is getting a little small.

‘You’ll never wear that again,’ he says. ‘I’ll buy you some proper clothes as soon as we get home. Tweed.’