Beads of sweat broke out on Vic’s forehead.

‘Because he’s got a dark skin? Honestly, Frank, whatever difference does that make?’

‘He’s only half British,’ Frank said. ‘So you have to wonder, is he only half-loyal?’

‘The boss has picked each of us for different reasons, and if you want to challenge his choices that’s up to you, Frank. But me, I’m just happy trying to do my best at the tasks we’ve been set.’ At last, the voice of reason. At least Johnnie was on his side.

Another man, unidentifiable: ‘If we don’t pull together we’ll never get anywhere.’

‘Well said.’ This was Johnnie again. The pebbles rattled as someone stood up. ‘I’m going back. It’s nearly time for tea.’

Vic felt unable to move, weighed down by a heavy sense of foreboding. Why was Frank casting seeds of mistrust? Had he done something to annoy him, or was it really just the colour of his skin? Vic wondered. Frank was prickly and rather annoying, but Vic had never imagined that he could be quite so jealous and manipulative. He hoped it wouldn’t become a problem.

At Christmas they’d been given a week’s leave and Vic endured the journey on slow, crowded trains to London, then onwards to Tunbridge Wells. It took nearly a whole day, but the look on his father’s face was reward enough.

He broke out a new bottle of Scotch whisky. ‘Special occasions and all that, my boy.’

‘Just a small one, please?’

His father poured two equal glasses, both large. ‘How’s it going, lad?’

‘Fine, thanks. Fine.’

‘You’re looking well.’

‘Must be all that Suffolk air.’

‘And the work? Is it interesting?’

‘Very, Father. Very interesting.’

‘And . . .?’

‘And that’s about all I can tell you, I’m afraid.’

His father reached for the bottle and poured another. ‘I can taste the heather in this one, can’t you? And the peat. Makes me nostalgic for the old homeland.’ His brogue became broader with every gulp.

Is it any wonder I’m confused? Vic thought to himself. Here was his father mithering on (a Suffolk phrase he’d heard Charlie Brinkley using) about his love of Scotland as they sat in a small terraced house in south England surrounded by reminders of what Vic considered his homeland. Here was the tri-fold screen with paintings of exotic landscapes, the carved dark-wood settee and the coffee table with its round engraved brass tray, a couple of table lamps with stems of green marble and a mantelpiece crammed with ivory ornaments.

It was strange seeing these relics of his Indian life – so well recalled from the large airy bungalow at the top of the hill in Kerala, with undulating tea bush plantations like puffy green clouds stretching before them in every direction – transplanted into two dark rooms like a set of ill-fitting clothing. Nothing seemed comfortable, or felt at home. A bit like myself, he thought wretchedly.