Read Private's Progress Online
Authors: Alan Hackney
Private's Progress (17 page)
S
TANLEY SAT GLOOMILY
on his bed watching a procession of enormous black ants crossing the concrete floor and disappearing down a hole at the edge of the verandah step. It was afternoon, the hour of sleeping.
The ants were symptomatic in their size. Stanley had know that India was a place of vast distances, but he had not bargained for Delhi being enormous too. He had quickly learned that the L. of C. mess to which he was attached was in Delhi
Cantonment
;
that
New
Delhi was several long miles away by tonga, and that
Old
Delhi was some distance from that. He had sightseen the Red Fort and Viceregal Lodge, and it had cost him nearly a pound for the tonga fare. If he went anywhere by foot it was dusty, and it became almost immediately obvious that wherever it was would be too far to walk.
The morning round of vendors—charwallah,
shoeshine
-wallah, fruit-wallah, raw-egg-and-vinegar man—was over, and the evening round (most of these again, as well as the dhobi and the book-wallah) was not yet due. They all had their origins in far-off compounds and bazaars, and all came on bicycles, even the
book-wallah
, more sophisticated than the others, wearing a mauve herringbone tweed jacket, under which the tails of his white shirt hung down over his saddle.
The astonishing case of books he brought on the
bicycle offered a strange and exotic literary feast, mostly of an inflammatory character. The minor works of several major authors (if the titles seemed sufficiently promising) rubbed shoulders with lesser
erotica
in anonymous brown leather covers, in which the frank language of the barrack-room was consistently used, though more accurately applied, and as the stories ran their frantic course, with incredible frequency. As if Lawrence, Boccaccio and the anonymous works needed the balance of a scientific background, support was lent by a number of technical treatises:
Introduction
to
Sex
,
The
Technique
of
Love,
Friendship
and
Marriage
and casebook selections from Kraft Ebing. Competing with these were political works by Indian authors:
I
Accuse
England
,
An
Indian
Speaks
,
Verdict
on
Beverley
Nichols
by
K.
N.
Jog
,
and
Why
are
You
Here,
Tommy?
All these the book-wallah would take back within a month. A
five-rupee
book could be returned, if unmarked, for three rupees, eight annas.
Stanley had already almost given up the attempt to break into the military machine proper, and was gradually succumbing to the heat and the book-wallah. The other members of the mud and plaster mess all seemed to be dim majors in the R.I.A.S.G. who were out all day at offices and in and out of the dining-room very perfunctorily at dinner. Their salaries (including several allowances for which Stanley seemed unlikely ever to qualify) were large and had an inflationary effect on local prices. There was as rigid a hierarchy of servants as was at one time to be found in the great houses of England, but they seemed to Stanley to lack all integrity. He had complained after three days
to the Jemadar of the mess bearers about the rascally fellow allocated to him as a servant, and the man had been replaced by another who was a young cousin of the Jemadar bearer’s. The former bearer reappeared later, helping to clean Stanley’s shoes. The new bearer explained brightly that the former one was his uncle.
No pay statement had as yet arrived from England, and Stanley was dependent on the field cashier for advances. From time to time he would call in at a headquarters and ask a staff captain about his posting. The main body of the Translators had dispersed to various centres thousands of miles away, but although Stanley was less than a month behind them there seemed no urgency in official circles to send him hotfoot on their heels. Indeed, there seemed to be a lack of interest in his future. Gradually, the walk to the tonga rank became more and more irksome, and Stanley became contented with letting the matter drift.
Two letters came for him, readdressed from the War Office.
His father’s he read first, and it struck him as strange.
My
dear
Stanley,
Now
that
you
are
in
Cairo
and
subject
to
an
annual
rainfall
of
only
1.8
inches
you
will
no
doubt
be
missing
the
glories
of
the
English
spring.
I
am
taking
the
opportunity
of
doing
the
spring-cleaning
of
the
house
myself,
despite
the
defection
of
Sarah
and
the
odd,
uncooperative
attitude
of
Mrs.
Scully.
I
find
the
work
most
satisfying
and
am
negotiating
with
the
village
stores
for
the
purchase
of
metal
and
furniture
polish
in
bulk.
I
do
not
get
much
time
these
days
to
pursue
my
researches,
us
there
are
so
many
things
to
polish.
There
was
a
tiresome
interruption
the
other
day.
I
don’t
think
you
met
your
mother’s
brother,
Bertram
Tracepurcel,
since
you
saw
him
when
you
were
twelve
in
1936.
I
had
to
attend
his
funeral
the
other
day,
as
he
had
quoted
me
as
next-
of-
kin.
The
journey
to
Queen’s
Wetherfold,
where
it
took
place,
proved
a
useful
time-table
exercise,
though
I
did
not
have
time
to
plan
it
properly
and
arrived
after
the
service
had
begun.
It
was
a
military
affair
and,
as
it
transpired,
a
double
funeral,
for
his
batman
had
also
been
involved
in
the
accident
where
he
met
his
death.
Your
sister
Catherine
was
present,
too,
and
deeply
affected
,
but
I
found
the
proceedings
most
interesting.
Catherine
came
back
and
spent
the
night
here.
I
would
strongly
advise
you
to
see
as
much
of
the
country
as
you
can.
I
understand
that
Luxor
and
the
Valley
of
the
Kings
are
both
very
impressive.
Your
affectionate
Father.
Catherine, too, seemed to share the inexplicable delusion that he was stationed in Cairo.
My
dear,
I
wonder
if
you
have
heard
about
Uncle
Bertram’s
accident?
He
and
his
servant
were
killed
in
a
road
accident
in
Berkshire
on
Monday.
It
was
a
great
shock
after
seeing
and
talking
with
him
so
recently,
and
he
was
only
forty-eight.
A
Major
Dale
from
the
War
Office
came
to
tell
us.
He
was
very
sweet,
but
you
can
imagine
it
was
a
shock.
He
said
Uncle
Bertram
always
had
a
passion
for
driving
things
he
shouldn’t
and
that
he
had
always
been
afraid
there
would
be
an
accident
some
day.
I
went
to
the
funeral
and
Father
was
there.
He
came
late.
But,
Stanley,
you
know
he
always
was
a
bit
peculiar.
I’m
afraid
he’s
getting
much
worse.
It
was
very
worrying.
We
were
coming
out
of
the
church
to
the
grave
when
he
arrived
and
he
took
off
his
hat.
Stanley,
he had a mob cap on underneath.
As
soon
as
I
saw
him
I’m
afraid
I
started
to
cry,
but
he
seemed
quite
cheerful
in
an
odd
sort
of
way.
Afterwards
I
went
back
with
him
to
Oldstones
for
the
night
and
it
was
quite
weird.
The
whole
place,
furniture
and
orna
ments
,
shining
like
mad.
He
still
had
his
mob
cap
on,
and
put
an
apron
on
too
and
kept
going
off
to
his
study
to
do
his
work.
He
came
out
every
now
and
then
with
a
lot
of
ornaments
on
a
tray,
all
sparkling,
and
went
back
with
afresh
load.
Darling,
he
isn’t
doing
any
writing.
It’s
awful.
I
wish
you
were
home
again.
I’ve
spoken
to
Mrs.
Scully
who
comes
and
does,
but
she
says
it’s
useless
trying
to
head
him
off
the
polishing.
Is
Cairo
really
like
the
pictures?
Must
close
now
and
do
Michelin’s
din-dins.
He’s
still
hefty,
going
on
for
twenty
pounds.
Love,
Kat.
Stanley was distressed by the news in the letters, but it occurred to him that he ought to be in much more of a turmoil than he was. The present scene, though in a way monotonous, was too obtrusive. Events in England already seemed comparatively unreal. He intended, however, to reply to these letters at once, and set about looking for stationery. The R.I.A.S.C. majors were of an economical turn of mind, and there was no writing paper provided in the bare and characterless ante-room
of the mess. It meant buying from the book wallah when he came. Meanwhile Stanley went to sleep.
*
Events in Europe were coming very rapidly to a head now. Whole German divisions were beginning to surrender, then entire armies. The Russians were in Berlin and suddenly it was all over. Hitler married Eva Braun with his last breath, Goebbels poisoned his family and himself, and the dénouement quickly
became
complete. In the resulting confusion the
HATRACK
organisation was partly fused with another, partly sent to the British Army of Occupation to round up technicians, partly disbanded and
irretrievably
scattered. Large numbers of folk from the armies in Europe were diverted to India for the final effort against the Japanese. The R.I.A.S.C. majors talked of PYTHON and REPAT, but to many of them
home-leave
schemes and repatriation did not apply, for they had their origins in the country and had enlisted there.