adventure, promise and freedom: but more than that, he sensed that he would become a different person for having been there. India was to be the making of him. As soon as he had saved enough money, he had headed for Goa, staying for a month in Vasco da Gama before venturing further afield.
It was while travelling in Râjasthân that he first met Moira. He had arranged to meet an old school friend in Udaipur – a beautiful city surrounded by water, known as ‘the Venice of India’ – but his train from Jaipur was delayed for five hours, so that the sun was already beginning to set when he arrived in the city. Walking through streets bathed in the rose-gold glow of early evening sunlight, Jim made his way towards the small hostel where his friend was staying. The city was a multisensory assault of noise, heat, colour and scent, at once exotic and familiar, and Jim was swept away by the raw beauty of it all.
When he reached his destination he was surprised to discover not a backstreet apartment block but an imposing dusky pink palace, its carved balustrades and gothic arched windows a faded reminder of its former British Empire days. Hibiscus-framed stone steps led up to the main entrance, through a crumbling archway towards a small courtyard garden with a bubbling stone fountain at the building’s centre. And there, dressed in a long white shirt, jeans and sandals, her head swathed in a cool white scarf, was Moira O’Shaughnessy.
Jim had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life – even the city that had beguiled him so completely since his arrival seemed to dim in comparison. In the middle of the chaos of Udaipur, Moira appeared as a vision of calm – poised, contained. As Jim gazed at her it was as if coolness emanated from her, like a frosted glass of iced water in the midst of the Râjasthâni heat. For some time, he didn’t know what to do. Should he approach her? Say something? His mouth was dry and words had all but deserted him, yet his head was awash with thoughts. Eventually, he was rescued by the familiar voice of Ray, his friend, calling from the third floor balcony overlooking the garden. As Jim raised his head to greet him, Moira looked up, too, and when his eyes returned to her he saw she was smiling at him.
‘I didn’t know you were expecting company, Ray,’ she said as Jim’s friend appeared beside them in the garden.
‘Surprising though it may be, Moira, I do actually have friends in this world apart from you,’ Ray grinned back and for an awful moment Jim feared that they were a couple. ‘Better get the formal introductions done then, hadn’t we? Jim Maynard, may I present the wonderful young actress Moira O’Shaughnessy. Moira’s here “finding herself” before embarking on her glittering showbiz career, isn’t that right?’
‘You’re the only drama queen in this palace, Ray,’ she scolded him, holding out her slender hand to Jim. When he took it, he was surprised at how warm it was. A gust of hot breeze shuddered through the Malati blooms which dripped large white, jasmine-shaped flowers like pearls from trails along the balconies overhead, sending a waft of clove scent towards Jim and Moira as their hands touched for the first time. From that day to this, Jim would always associate the smell of cloves with her – his breath catching in his throat whenever he used the spice in food he cooked at home for his young family.
At Ray’s invitation, Jim stayed in Udaipur for three weeks, initially exploring the city with his friend but increasingly venturing out with Moira. Ray, sensing the growing attraction between them, made his excuses and left them alone – a kindness which would later be repaid when Jim made him best man at his wedding. On the last night of his stay, sitting hand-in-hand with Moira at sunset on the banks of Lake Pichola, surrounded by ancient palaces, temples and hills, Jim found the courage to kiss her. In the midst of such history, it was as if they were outside of time itself – caught up in a magical world where nothing else mattered except the touch of their lips. He knew he was in love – and Moira felt it, too. Swept up in a tide of emotion, she refused to let him leave alone and, the next day, Ray waved off not one but two of his friends at Udaipur station.
They returned to England together, Moira surprising her mother by moving back home to Shoreham-by-Sea after several years of living in London.
‘I need to be near him,’ she had insisted, despite Mrs O’Shaughnessy’s insistence that she continue to pursue her career in the capital. ‘I love him, Ma. I’m going to marry him.’
While Jim’s mother had privately voiced her concerns about the suitability of her son’s wife-to-be, she became supportive of the young couple as soon as she could see their determination to marry. Moira’s mother, on the other hand, made no secret of her feelings on the matter.
‘He’ll hold you back,’ she warned her daughter, in full earshot of Jim. ‘You’re destined for greater things than keeping home for him. I didn’t raise you to be ordinary, Moira Abigail. I raised you to be a star.’
‘I can still act in London and live in Brighton,’ Moira argued, gripping Jim’s arm as if it were a lifebuoy. ‘Jim doesn’t want me to surrender my career. This is what I want, Ma.’
Never pacified, Mrs O’Shaughnessy maintained her objections, taking every possible opportunity to remind Jim of his unsuitability for her acting protégé daughter. Moira paid no attention, but Jim – despite appearances – found her disapproval painful. In later years, when he was alone, her words of dissent would plague him: had she been right? Had he stifled the promise of the woman he loved?
*
The rich tang of bubbling curry rose through the townhouse to meet the laughter of the Maynard sisters as Jim opened the front door and ushered his mother inside.
‘How are the three tornadoes?’ she grinned, hanging her handbag on the carved wooden balustrade and glancing up the stairs.
‘Overexcited,’ Jim replied over his shoulder as he walked down the hallway towards the kitchen. ‘We had another of Daisy’s theatrical masterpieces this afternoon.’
‘Another one? Well, well, that young lady’s becoming positively prolific. I’m sorry I missed it.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve a feeling they’re planning an evening performance.’ Jim smiled to himself as he stirred the spicy sweet potato and lentil dahl, savouring the Indian spice-infused steam. Somehow the house itself seemed to relax whenever Grandma Flo arrived. In the three years since Moira’s departure he had come to a new understanding of how special his mother was. She had been a constant support, picking up Moira’s discarded baton and running with it – a selfless act of devotion to both him and his girls that he would forever be grateful for. In the early days of his sudden single-fatherhood, Flo had practically moved in; cooking meals, cleaning the house and running around after three very confused children while Jim stared vacantly at the seemingly irreparable shards of his life that surrounded him. She had never once complained, always present and tirelessly attentive, making sense of the chaos of a home and life that had become alien to her son. Little by little, her patient persistence paid off, gently coaxing Jim back into the world he was so reluctant to face.
He thanked her, of course – over and over again – but even this evening as he prepared the meal, he felt as if it would never be enough to express what his mother’s involvement meant to him.
He gave the saucepan a final stir, poured a cup of Assam tea from the kingfisher-blue teapot and rummaged in a drawer for knives and forks. ‘Right, dinner’s almost ready. I’ll just set the table and then call the girls down.’ To his surprise, when he entered the dining room, Jim found Flo holding his wedding album.
‘I really don’t understand why you still have this,’ she said.
‘It’s there if the girls want to see it,’ he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the fistful
