A Division Of The Spoils (Raj Quartet 4) (78 page)

‘It’s entirely my fault. I ought to have sent a wire. Checked that it was convenient.’

‘The flap would have occurred anyway. It’s not inconvenient for us. We’re just worried about you.’

‘I’d like to stay here, if that’s all right.’

‘Good. Actually it’ll make things easier for Sarah, not that she ever complains, but we do all tend to load her with extra jobs. She could help look after you better here than at the club.’

‘Tell me one thing, is the Resident at Gopalakand in what I call the entrenched opposition camp that’s encouraging the princes to stand firm on their own independence?’

‘Fundamentally, that is the problem.’

‘What does Dmitri want?’

‘Honourable integration.’

‘And the Nawab?’

‘I don’t think the poor old man knows. But after all these years he’s suddenly resisting Dmitri’s advice. The Resident’s trying to persuade the Maharajah in Gopalakand to sign nothing and reserve his position until paramountcy automatically lapses on August fifteen and leaves him technically independent. As a result the Nawab’s taking that line too. It’s quite hopeless of course. He knows it, but he’s being very stubborn and the Resident isn’t being in the least helpful. He’s never really been interested in Mirat. Mirat should have had its own agent long ago.’

‘Are you on Dmitri’s side, then?’

‘Let’s say I agree that the only sensible course for Mirat is to accede to the new Indian Union on the three main subjects, sign the standstill agreement and then get the best deal possible. Mirat’s entirely surrounded by what’s been British-Indian territory and overnight becomes Indian Union territory. The Nawab can’t live in a vacuum.’

Perron nodded. He said, ‘How have things been for you, Nigel, this past two years?’

‘I’ve moved around a lot. Little else. Perhaps I ought to have stayed in the army. It turned out to be the wrong time to come back into the Political. Still, the end would have been the same in either case.’

‘What do you hope to achieve in Gopalakand, or is that confidential?’

‘If I can come back with a letter from Conway to the Nawab making it clear that Mirat’s on its own and that Conway can’t advise either way, then we should be able to persuade the old chap to sign. And sign he must. There’s no sensible alternative. Except chaos, if that’s sensible. From what I’ve seen going on in the past few weeks I sometimes wonder whether the Political Department cares, so long as it can close itself down convinced that it’s upheld the principles of the whole past relationship between the States and the Crown.’

‘ “Nothing can bring you peace but yourself,” ’ Perron quoted. ‘ “Nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of principles.” ’

‘What?’

‘Emerson.’

‘Oh.’ Nigel smiled. ‘Did he say that? How apt. That sums up my department’s attitude admirably.’

‘Not just your department’s. I think it sums up the attitude of everybody who’s concerned in what happens on August fifteen.’ Perron took a sip of his gin. ‘I’m sorry about Merrick,’ he said. ‘Not that I ever liked the man. Still, he seemed to have made good in Mirat.’

‘Yes.’ Rowan looked at his watch again.

‘And Harry Coomer? Any news of him? I’m sorry I decided there was nothing to be done at my end.’

‘I don’t think I really expected it, but I appreciated your giving thought to it, and appreciated your letter. One becomes involved for a time, and then the involvement ends. In any case, I don’t think there was anything Kumar wanted.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘He implied as much. We exchanged letters after Gopal died, last year. Poor old Gopal. He was always getting colds. He took his wife down to Puri for a holiday and caught cold and got pneumonia. I asked Mrs Gopal to put me in touch with the man who’d been helping Kumar rehabilitate himself. Got Kumar’s address out of him, so wrote. Difficult letter to write. I didn’t hear for ages. He’d moved, so my letter followed him around. When he wrote he didn’t give me his new address but the letter was postmarked Ranpur so he must still have been there, I imagine. Probably still is.’

‘What did he say?’

‘What it added up to was that he was quite content doing what he was doing, coaching students privately.’

‘A defensive attitude?’

‘I don’t think so. He seemed very grateful for the one or two things I’d suggested.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Just general ideas about how he could make best use of his talents.’

‘Commerce for instance?’

‘Yes, but that would be open to him at almost any time.’

‘Would it, Nigel? The kind of commerce we think of as commerce? I seem to remember he failed to get into it once, with British-Indian Electric.’

‘Once.’

‘Has British-Indian Electric changed?’

Rowan said nothing.

‘Will anything ever really change in India, for him? Isn’t Harry Coomer the permanent loose end? Too English for the Indians, too Indian for the English?’

‘That, rather, is Sarah’s view. Frankly, I think he’s more interested in being just his own kind of Indian.’

‘Have you told her you tried to help him?’

‘Yes, but only quite recently.’

‘I don’t suppose you ever showed her a transcript of the examination?’

‘Good God, no. She knows nothing about that.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Few people do now, except you. Everything in connection with the examination was destroyed, except the orders for Kumar’s release.’

‘To protect Merrick’s reputation?’

‘The issues involved ranged far wider than that. I imagine quite a lot of files were vetted, and re-arranged.’

‘To make it more difficult for an incoming Congress ministry to smell out witches?’

‘A witch-hunt was what certain sections of Congress wanted. An inquiry could have aggravated racial tension to an intolerable degree, coming as it would have done on top of the
INA
trials. If it interests you as a student of history, there was no inquiry because between them Nehru and Wavell put a stop to it. They both saw what it could lead to.’

‘And Merrick got off scot-free.’

‘Actually, I think it annoyed him. I believe he felt slighted. There were only a few individual inquiries into serious cases involving rather senior officials. It was all done very quietly. One or two people got retired, prematurely.’

‘What happened to Kasim’s son, Sayed?’

‘He was cashiered. That’s all.’

‘What’s he doing now?’

‘I’m not sure. Living in Lahore, I believe, with his Muslim League sister and brother-in-law. In some kind of business. Ahmed will tell you.’

‘No splendid appointment for one of the
INA
heroes?’

‘They were only heroes for a while. In a way they still are.
But folk-heroes. People in a story or legend. When it comes to finding places for them in the world of affairs it’s a bit different.’

Sarah came out. Behind her were a couple of servants with bags and the clerk with a briefcase. They went down to the car while Sarah said: ‘You’re all set, Nigel. If Laura asks, her green taffeta’s in the blue case, along with other things she might need.’

‘That’s good of you.’

‘Give Sir Robert my kind regards.’

‘I will. Guy’s going to stay here, by the way.’

‘Good. Do you ride?’

‘Off and on. Fortunately more on than off. But it’s pure luck.’

She laughed. ‘Perhaps we could go out tomorrow morning. I’ll ring you later today, anyway.’

The three of them went down into the compound but after he and Nigel had said goodbye Perron stayed near the bottom step while Nigel saw Sarah into her car and then got into his own. He waved them both off.

‘Sahib,’ Tippoo said, behind him. ‘Gin’n’fizz?’

*

Rain. Geckos. Clack-clack-clack. On the walls. Heraldic lizard shapes, pale yellow on the grey-white wash. Chasing one another, intent on copulation. He had woken erect himself – and, half-asleep, smiled, reassured both by this and the realization that the faint discomfort in his bowels had gone, that he was acclimatized. He peered at his wrist-watch. It was only half-past four. He had slept for two hours, after a lunch of chicken pulao, mutton curry lightly spiced in the northern Indian style, and Murree beer. Somewhere a gutter was overflowing. On the basket-work bed-side teapoy there was a tray of tea and a plate of bananas and bread and butter. It must have been the slight clatter of the tray that had woken him. He began to open the mosquito-net and, swinging himself up and round was about to get out when he remembered scorpions and paused, his feet well away from the floor. He reached down, tapped his slippers, and then thrust his feet
into them. He grabbed a towel from the bedside chair, wound it round his middle and went into the bathroom.

But, returning, he paused on the threshhold of the bedroom, alert. There was a smell he hadn’t noticed before. A foul, sweet smell. He glanced around. In a moment or two the smell seemed to have gone. He sat down and poured tea. He glanced up at the sloping rafters; then lit a cigarette, smoked the recollection of the smell away. The shrouded bed looked like a catafalque. There was a sudden flash of lightning that lit the bathroom and momentarily distorted the shape of the bed. After that, the thunder. And then the humdrum sound of continuing but gradually diminishing rain.

As he finished his tea the bathroom was flooded in sunshine. He called for Tippoo.

*

By five-thirty he was bathed and dressed. He went out into the compound. The shadow of the bungalow thrust itself across the drive. He walked round the side, seeking the sunshine and warmth. At the back the compound stretched for perhaps one hundred yards. There must once have been a lawn and flower beds, but the latter were overgrown. The grass needed scything. An immense banyan tree, its main trunk on this side of the wall dividing Rowan’s bungalow from Merrick’s, connected the two gardens through its aerial roots. From the other side of the wall Perron heard the high-pitched voice of a young child, a boy, and lower-pitched woman’s laughter.

‘Catch, Minnie!’ the boy shouted. But the throw was too high. A ball sailed over and came to rest some thirty or forty yards away from where Perron was standing; but the ground was too rough for it to bounce. It died, disappeared. He moved off the path and struck out across the grass, wetting his shoes, the bottoms of his slacks. He cast to and fro. Eventually he found it: a grey, soggy tennis-ball.

He picked it up, then turned and saw an Indian woman and the child standing near the banyan tree. Beyond the tree a gate between the two compounds which he hadn’t noticed before stood open. The child made a commanding gesture to the woman, as if bidding her stay where she was and then
advanced towards Perron: a Pathan child dressed in baggy white pantaloons and shirt, sash, embroidered waistcoat, and cocks-comb pugree. Stuck in the sash was a toy dagger. A miniature Red Shadow. As he got nearer Perron saw that he was of course an English boy, dressed up. His eyes were bright blue, his eyelashes very pale. From under the turban emerged a lick of sandy red hair. He stopped and stuck his little fist round the handle of the toy dagger.

‘Who are you?’ the boy asked.

‘I’m just a visitor. Who are you?’

‘I live next door. Is that my ball?’

Perron stooped and showed it to him.

‘It looks like mine. Has it got
MGC
on it?’

Perron inspected it. ‘Yes, you can just see
MGC.
’

‘Then it must be mine.
MGC
means Mirat Gymkhana Club. Mr Macpherson always used to give me used tennis balls.’

Perron nodded, handed the ball over. The child spoke with the assurance of a boy far older.

‘It was Minnie’s fault. Women can’t catch. Thank you for finding it. If you hadn’t, Minnie would have had to look and she didn’t want to because she’s afraid of snakes.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No. At least, not very afraid. There were snakes here when Uncle Nigel came. He’s not my uncle really. I don’t have an uncle because my father didn’t have a brother and my mother only has a sister. My stepfather doesn’t have a brother either. I’ve got a stepfather because my real father was killed in the war.’

‘You’re Edward, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. My full name is Edward Arthur David Bingham.’

‘My name’s Guy. My other name is Perron.’

‘They’re both rather funny names, but I like Perron best. So I’ll call you Perron.’

‘Then I shall probably have to call you Bingham.’

‘Okay.’ A minor matter had been satisfactorily settled. A more important one was coming up. ‘Can you throw, Perron?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which arm do you use?’

‘The right arm.’

‘I throw with my left arm because I’m left-handed. My
stepfather has to throw with his right arm because his left arm was cut off. But he’s a very good thrower.’

‘What do you call your stepfather?’

‘Ronald. At least, I do mostly. My mother likes me to call him daddy, so sometimes I do. But he likes me to call him Ronald.’

‘Do you know what Ronald means?’

‘It means it’s his name.’

‘Most names have meanings. My name means wide. On the other hand it might mean wood. So you’d better go on calling me Perron which is probably just the place where we lived once. And I shall call you Edward after all. Ronald means the same as Rex or Reginald. It means someone with power who rules. Edward means a rich guard.’

‘But I’m not very rich. At the moment I’ve only got one rupee and four annas.’

‘I don’t think it’s a question of money. Anyway you’re guarding the fort while Ronald’s away. You’re looking after your mother, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. My mother’s name is Susan. What does Susan mean?’

‘It means a very beautiful flower called a lily. Not the red ones you see here. White ones.’

‘She is quite beautiful. Except when she cries. She’s crying now. That’s why they sent me out to play in the garden. She may have stopped crying though, if you want to see her. Come on. If she’s still crying we can play in our garden. It’s a nicer garden than this one.’

Perron got up. The child led the way. As he drew near the ayah he held the ball up and said, ‘Here’s the ball, ayah. We may want to play with it again.’ The girl took the ball in one hand and with the other half-covered her face with the free end of her saree, to protect herself from Perron’s gaze.