A Division Of The Spoils (Raj Quartet 4) (79 page)

The Merrick garden was certainly ‘nicer’. The lawns were well-cut, and there were signs of work-in-progress, in the form of beds recently dug into ovals, circles and rectangles. Edward pointed them out.

‘That’s where Ronald’s going to try to grow roses.’

Beyond the beds, at the far end of the Merrick compound, was a tennis-court. A thick hedge of shrubs and bushes hid the servants’ quarters. The bungalow itself had been re-stuccoed
and painted. The rear verandah formed an elegant whitewashed colonnaded semi-circle which embraced the central set of steps leading to the house. Between the columns hung green tattis, some lowered, others at half-mast. Tubs of canna lilies stood sentinel. The bungalow had the slightly raw look of having been stripped recently of ancient creepers to allow redecoration.

The little Pathan marched across the lawn towards the verandah and then at the bottom step kicked off his chappals and climbed barefoot. Perron decided that this was part of a private game, not obligatory, so he climbed shod. The boy waited for him at the top, legs apart, fist on the handle of the toy dagger.

‘Would you like to see my room first, Perron?’

‘Very much.’

The boy strode off to the right, along the verandah and round the corner. At the side of the bungalow he pulled open a wirescreen door, held it, and let Perron enter first.

A small room, austere, remarkably unboylike. That was Perron’s impression until he remembered that Edward hadn’t slept or played here for several months. The narrow little charpoy was unmade, its mattress rolled, the net folded. Across the exposed webbing were the clothes he had taken off – diminutive khaki shorts, a blue shirt and grey socks. A cane chair, an almirah and a chest of drawers were the only other furnishings. The door of the almirah was ajar, which suggested that the first thing Edward had done was seek out his Pathan outfit and hasten to get into it.

‘Do you like my room?’

‘Yes, I do. Where does ayah sleep?’

‘There of course.’ He pointed at the floor near the casement door. ‘Except neither of us sleeps here just now. We’re staying at the palace guest house. I’ll show you the palace if you like, but not today. Do you like my picture?’

Perron looked at the wall where the child was pointing. Above the chest of drawers was a coloured print in a gilt frame. He went to inspect it.

‘Daddy gave it to me. It’s called “The Jewel in Her Crown” and it’s about Queen Victoria.’

Perron saw that indeed it was. It was the kind of picture
whose awfulness gave it a kind of distinction. The old Queen was enthroned, beneath a canopy, receiving tribute from a motley gathering of her Indian subjects, chief among whom was a prince, bearing a crown on a cushion. Ranged on either side of the throne were representatives of the
raj
in statuesque pro-consular positions. Disraeli was there, indicating a parchment. In the background, plump angels peered from behind fat clouds, and looked ready to blow their long golden trumpets. The print was blemished by little speckles of brown damp.

‘But it isn’t the jewel in the crown the prince is holding. The jewel’s India,’ the boy explained.

‘Yes, I see.’

‘It’s an alle-gory.’

‘What’s an alle-gory?’

‘Don’t you know? It means telling a story that’s really two stories. The Queen’s dead now of course. I should think they’re all dead, except the angels. Angels never die.’

‘No. So I’m told.’

‘Have you ever seen an angel, Perron?’

‘No.’

‘Nor’ve I. Daddy says mummy saw an angel once, an angel in a circle of fire, but I mustn’t talk about it because it upsets her. Come on. Let’s see if she’s still crying.’

Reluctantly, Perron followed him to a closed door. The boy opened it, put his head out and listened. The silence coming from the other side was peculiarly oppressive. But Edward obviously found it reassuring.

‘I think she’s stopped.’

He opened the door wide. Beyond was the main entrance-hall, as encumbered with square pillars as the hall in Rowan’s bungalow; but the tiled floor shone – except in the area exposed by the taking up of a carpet which had been rolled and corded and now awaited disposal.

Edward pattered across the hall on his bare feet, entered a room whose door stood open. There was a pause, and then a woman’s shriek; a pause, a repetition of the shriek, longer drawn out, and then continuing.

The boy emerged, levitated. Simultaneously a magenta-coloured shape flowed past Perron – the ayah. The ayah
grasped the boy out of the air, and so revealed the source of the levitation; Sarah, who turned immediately back into the room from which the shrieks were still coming. As the ayah carried Edward away he began to wail. A white-clad, sashed and turbanned servant ran in from the front porch, across the hall and into the room.

Then the shrieking stopped. Slowly, Perron approached the wide-open doors, uncertain what to do. The doors were double and from the threshold he could see that the room was a bedroom, but a very large bedroom, dominated by a bed which was centrally placed, raised on a stone-stepped dais. Sarah was sitting on the edge of this bed cradling and rocking Susan in her arms. The servant stood nearby. Perhaps he had spoken because Sarah seemed to be shaking her head at him. Presently the servant took a few steps back, then turned, saw Perron, and came out, went past without a word.

Below the dais there was an open tin trunk and scattered all around it what must be Ronald Merrick’s relics:
KD
uniforms, Sam Brownes, leather cases, hairbrushes, a sword in a black and silver scabbard, mess dress, leather gloves, swagger canes, a Field Service cap, riding boots, jodhpurs, Harris tweed jacket, checked flannel shirts, a Gurkha’s kukri, grey slacks, brown shoes, chukka boots: the detritus of a man’s life in India.

Three tall casement windows, facing west, had been unshuttered. The evening light filtered through. The shafts of this light were alive with mobile particles of dust. He turned to leave. He didn’t think Sarah had seen him, but just then she said, ‘Don’t go away altogether, Guy.’

He said, ‘I’ll be outside.’

*

He sat on the front verandah. The trees and bushes in the front compound were in a similar state of decay as those in Rowan’s, but thick enough to screen the bungalow from the road. The servant was talking to the chauffeur of one of the palace limousines, parked near the foot of the steps. The servant came up and asked if the sahib wished anything. Perron shook his head.

He smoked. He thought: Why should she scream? It was her own son. He sat on the balustrade. As he finished his cigarette the ayah and Edward came out. Edward was now wearing his ordinary clothes. His little chappals clattered. He looked what he was – a small boy scarcely out of infancy, three or four years old. But when he spoke he was still the little Pathan.

‘Hello, Perron. Are you coming to the guest house?’

‘Afraid not, old chap. Not today, anyway.’

‘If you do I can show you the palace after all.’

‘I’d like that. Tomorrow, perhaps.’

The boy offered his hand. Perron reached down and shook it.

‘Goodbye, Perron.’

Edward clattered down the steps and ran to the car. The ayah hastened after him. He shouted at the driver, ‘Jeldi, jeldi. Ham ek dam Guest House wapas-jane-wale hain. Chalo!’

The driver, approaching, wagged his head and called back, ‘Thik hai, Sahib.’ He helped Edward get up on the running-board and open the rear door. The ayah followed him in but must have been told to go to the farther seat because when the door was shut Edward put his head out of the open window and shouted:

‘I can show you the white peacock too, Perron.’

Perron made an appreciative sideways nod of his head. The boy sat back. The car set off.

‘You’ve made a hit.’

Sarah had come out and was standing behind him. She said, ‘The white peacock’s his special secret. But why does he call you Perron?’

‘We agreed to be informal. He’s a remarkable boy, isn’t he? How old?’

‘He was three last June. I remember wondering whether he’d ever learn to talk.’

‘Is Susan all right now?’

‘Yes, perfectly. She’d like it if you came in and had a word. She may ask you to dinner at the guest house this evening. That was originally my idea too but I’d prefer it if you made an excuse. These upsets sometimes have repercussions later. So I’d rather we left anything like that until tomorrow.’

‘What upset her?’

Sarah, arms folded in the characteristic way, shrugged slightly. She didn’t look at him. Her manner struck him as evasive. He realized that this was not the first time today that it had. She said, ‘Oh, the whole afternoon mainly. She insisted on coming over and sorting out some of Ronald’s things, so I had to come too because Aunt Fenny’s not feeling very bright. Then Edward insisted on coming with us. The whole thing was a mistake from the start.’

‘Could you have dinner with me, at Nigel’s?’

‘I’d like to but I’d better not. Let’s go out tomorrow morning, though. I’ll try and rope Ahmed in too.’

‘What time?’

‘Could you be ready by seven? That’s the best time.’

‘Rain or shine?’

‘At this time of year it only rains in the afternoon, if it rains at all.’

‘I’ve got nothing special to ride in.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Well, let’s go in. The guest house is only a few minutes away so the car will be back soon and I want to get Susan away before the light goes.’

*

‘We met didn’t we, Mr Perron? That time in Pankot just after Ronnie and I became engaged and you were working with him.’

She had on a cotton print dress with a full skirt, which was disposed to envelop her legs while she knelt on the floor by the tin trunk, her weight centred on her left hip, supported by a stiffened left arm. After they’d shaken hands she placed her right hand back on her left shoulder. The light which twenty minutes before had streamed through the unshuttered windows had diminished, but what was left of it lit one side of her pretty flushed face and picked out the red-brown tones of hair which in full daylight would look dark, almost black. She seemed perfectly composed now.

She said, ‘Of course, you know that I’ve lost him. My son doesn’t know. It’s really a question of working out a way of how and what to tell him.’ She reached out and touched the Field Service cap.

Sarah said, ‘Why don’t you leave it all, Su? Khansamar will put it away. Then we could all have a drink outside while we wait for the car.’

‘No, I don’t want a drink. But you both have one. I’ve still got a lot to sort out and I don’t want Khansamar touching anything.’

‘Then I’ll help you start putting things back,’ Sarah knelt and began to fold the tweed jacket.

‘How little there is,’ Susan said. ‘I mean when you think of the years a man spends out here. So little he would want to keep. Will daddy have as little as this?’

‘I don’t expect there’ll be much more.’

Susan fingered the pommel of the sword. ‘And even the things they do have look like toys, don’t they? I suppose that’s because the things they play with when they’re young are just smaller versions of the things they’ll have to use later. It’s different for us. A doll’s house isn’t at all like a real house. And a doll not in the least like a real baby. You didn’t know my husband well, did you, Mr Perron? You were hardly with him at all, were you?’

‘No. A very short time.’

‘Ask anyone here in Mirat and they’ll tell you what a fine man he was. I don’t yet think of him as dead.’

Sarah gently withdrew the sword from her sister’s touch and placed it in the trunk.

‘And then my not being here at the time makes it seem it hasn’t happened, and when I tell Edward we’ll be seeing daddy again soon, that’s what it seems like. That we will be seeing him. Please stop putting things back, Sarah. It’s all that’s left of Ronald and it’s not even all here.’

‘Oh?’ Sarah said, not looking at her sister. ‘What’s missing?’

‘His arm for one thing.’

Sarah pushed hair away from her right cheek and didn’t comment.

‘I mean the artificial one, Mr Perron. His harness. But we always called it his arm. It was one of the ways we made light of it. Where’s my arm? he used to say. He took it off every night. Nobody knows the discomfort he was in, from the chafing. The first time I saw his poor shoulder and his poor stump, I cried. They were so inflamed and raw. That’s because
he never spared himself. He learned to ride again, you know. Getting up on what he called the wrong side. He played tennis too. He called it patball because he had to serve underarm by dropping the ball and hitting it on the bounce but he played a strong game otherwise.’

Sarah had got up and was opening a chest of drawers. Susan said, ‘It’s no good. I’ve looked in all the drawers and cupboards. I’ve looked everywhere, but I can’t find it.’

‘What’s this, then?’ Sarah held up a contraption of webbing and metal.

Without even looking Susan said, ‘That’s the one he couldn’t wear. The new one. The one they said was much better, a much more modern design. But if you look at it you’ll see it can’t have been worn more than a few times.’

Sarah thrust it back into the chest and closed the drawer.

‘I hope this doesn’t embarrass you, Mr Perron. Talking about his arm. But you see he never, never, wore it in bed. He took it off every night. He had to be very careful not to let the stump get too inflamed. I know what a relief it was to him to get out of the harness, and sometimes what torture it was to put it back on in the morning. He wouldn’t have worn it while he was laid up after his riding accident.’

Perron said, ‘Perhaps the accident explains why it’s not here, Mrs Merrick. It could have been damaged and sent away for repair.’

‘Oh.’ She considered him gravely. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ She smiled. ‘Ronnie was quite right. He always was. He said women have instincts, they know when something is wrong or not properly explained. But men work things out logically much better. It struck me as odd when I couldn’t find it, because to put it brutally I couldn’t see them putting the arm on, just to take – just to take his body to the mortuary for the post-mortem. And there had to be a post-mortem because he was found dead in bed and people thought he was getting better. I blame Dr Habbibullah, but daddy says I shouldn’t. He said no one can foresee a clot of blood. But why was there a clot of blood? Unless there was an internal injury from the riding accident that Dr Habbibullah hadn’t diagnosed?’