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‘Ian had tears in his eyes when he received the gift,’ said Vendela.
‘He is a wonderful lad, a little insecure but wonderful. He’ll make good use of the ticket and the scholarship,’ said Carter proudly.
‘He asked after you. He wanted to thank you for your help.’
‘You didn’t tell h
im I contributed money from my own pocket, did you?’ asked Carter in alarm.
‘I did, but Ben denied it, saying you’d spent the year’s entire budget on your gambling debts.’
The noise from the party echoed through the courtyard. Carter frowned.
‘That boy is a devil. If he wasn’t about to leave, I would throw him out.’
‘You adore the boy, Thomas.’ Vendela laughed as she stood up. ‘And he knows it.’
The nurse made her way to the door, turning as she reached it. She didn’t give up easily.
‘Why don’t you come down?’
‘Goodnight, Vendela.’
‘You’re a boring old man.’
‘And proud of it …’
Recognising the futility of her task, Vendela mumbled a few words and left Carter alone. The director of St Patrick’s turned his desk lamp off and walked stealthily to the window to peer at the party through the slats of his blind. The garden was lit with flares, and lanterns cast a copper glow over the familiar smiling faces under the full moon. Although none of them knew it, they each had a one-way ticket to somewhere, but only Ian knew his destination.
‘IN TWENTY MINUTES IT will be midnight,’ Ben announced.
His eyes shone as he watched the firecrackers spreading a shower of golden sparks into the air.
‘I hope Siraj has some good stories tonight,’ said Isobel as she stared at the bottom of her glass, holding it up to the light as if she expected to find something in it.
‘The best,’ Roshan assured them. ‘Tonight is our last night. The end of the Chowbar Society.’
‘I wonder what will become of the Palace,’ said Seth.
For years none of them had referred to the dilapidated old house by any other name.
‘Guess,’ Ben suggested. ‘Most likely a bank. Isn’t that what they always build when they knock something down in any city? It’s the same the world over.’
Siraj had joined them and was considering Ben’s prediction.
‘They might turn it into a theatre,’ the skinny boy proposed, gazing at Isobel, the impossible object of his affection.
Ben rolled his eyes and shook his head. When it came to flattering the girl, Siraj had no dignity.
‘Maybe they won’t touch it,’ said Ian, who had been listening quietly to his friends, stealing a few quick glances at the picture Michael was drawing on a small sheet of paper.
‘What are you doing there, master?’ asked Ben.
Michael looked up from his drawing for the first time. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a faraway world. He smiled shyly and exhibited the sheet of paper.
‘It’s us,’ the club’s resident artist explained.
The six other members of the Chowbar Society examined the picture for five long seconds in silence. The first to look away from the drawing was Ben. Michael recognised the enigmatic expression that crossed his friend’s face when he suffered one of his strange attacks of melancholy.
