Between the apricot gladioli and the bougainvillea she fitted in very nicely, in her sea blue cashmere shawl and Indian earrings. The chair arrived and she sat mysteriously down, her face full of gossip.

Agatha leaned forward.

‘He’s coming just behind me. He said not to wait. He was talking to the workers on the estate in Bengali. Fancy, Bengali! He’s not even from these parts, but from Africa. He’s really Dutch, did you know?’

‘Holland is neutral of course…’ said Bit. Agatha rolled her eyes and lit a cigarette.

‘At least I will not be the only one with a funny accent round here…’ said Aunty.

‘Tell us again why he’s here Aunty,’ pushed Agatha. ‘Is he happy?’

‘Happiness I don’t know exactly, but I think he has just come from Calcutta,’ said Aunty. ‘He seems to divide his time between us and the city. He’s been staying at the Slap Club.’

‘Saturday Club, Aunty,’ Bit reprimanded her, ‘Come on now. We don’t need talk like that.’

‘But here in the Terai,’ she continued holding up her hand, ‘He’s down with the monks, that little monastery so brightly painted, you know as you come up the hill - Ghoom. Very different residences, I was thinking. Perhaps he has two minds and cannot make them up.’

‘He does sound peculiar,’ said Agatha, ‘Do you think he really is a spy?’

‘And if he is a spy,’ Aunty clapped her hands, ‘Who is he going to be spying on…’

‘The spy in the foothills…’ began Agatha twirling the branches of a nearby magnolia. ‘He sounds a bit grand for us don’t you think? I mean there’s not really that much that goes on round here in terms of espionage. We’re hardly intriguing…’

‘There’s always more going on than you think…’ countered Aunty.

‘Yes I see. That dark untrammelled seam of passion that runs deep through the tea valleys here…’ She made her voice slightly husky. ‘Like the stuffy British governor with the alcoholic wife, or that funny little