The Day of the Scorpion (63 page)

‘Who are the Purvises?’

‘Oh just some rather dreary civil types Arthur has to keep in with. They’re having a bridge party – Indians, not cards – and want to muster forces for after dinner when it gets tense and embarrassing because everybody’s said everything twice.’

‘I’ve never been to a bridge party.’

‘Think yourself lucky. It’s part of the price you pay when you get posted to a place like this. Let’s powder our noses and get moving with the coffee. Some of them
need
it.’ She hesitated, apparently struck by a conscientious thought. ‘Oh dear. Ought I to let you? I
am
responsible for you to your mother, aren’t I?’

‘I’ve been out with tipsy boys before.’

‘But it’s different here. Calcutta’s not Pankot and some of them are tipsy already. Well, one of them is.’

‘I don’t think we need worry about him.’

Fenny stared at her. A slight flush came and went. ‘Don’t we? Heavens.’ She smiled. ‘What can you know about such
things? Well, anyway. Come on. Powder noses and into the breach.’

The Purvises’ bridge party was an official affair so Aunt Fenny and Uncle Arthur used the staff car. They dropped Sarah and Major Clark at the entrance to the Grand Hotel. A following taxi brought the five others. Between the departure of car and arrival of taxi, Clark – shooting away small boys and bent beggars – said, ‘Be sure to tell me the moment you’ve had enough. It can get pretty rackety in here. It may not be quite up your street.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Why not?’

‘Well, I should say rather, it’s not much up mine.’

‘That didn’t seem to be Uncle Arthur’s impression earlier.’

‘No.’ She felt him glance down at her – not far down; he wasn’t tall. She caught sight of the taxi that was bringing the others. ‘It wouldn’t be the first wrong one he’s had. Let’s go in. It’s a hell of a long walk. They’ll soon catch up.’

The long walk was through a shopping arcade. At the end of it was the reception hall. Near by a band thumped; a sound Susan once described as only a degree or so less fascinating than the sound of men
en masse
, waiting in the ante-room of a mess for you to arrive on ladies’ night. Bands attracted Sarah too, but hearing this one prodded her alive to the fact that under a wakeful surface, articially stimulated by plenty to drink and too much chatter, she was exhausted. Was it only yesterday at this time that the train had left Ranpur? She smiled cheerfully at the other five, as they came up, and went in the midst of them through a lounge full of wicker chairs and tables, every one occupied, predominantly by men in uniform, and out on to a broad terrace where a band played to an almost empty floor, under a temporary rainy-season roof. In the dry, presumably, you could dance under the stars. Bearers moved tables together and arranged chairs. About to sit she felt herself held.

Clark said, ‘I only dance where there’s plenty of room and other people can see, so now’s your chance.’ He took her on to the floor. A quick-step. An over-familiar tune. Susan would
know its name. For the first few moments she felt a pleasure at discovering he danced well and that she could follow. But after one and a half circuits of the floor the old problem arose. She had never been much good at talking and dancing together. The two duties seemed incompatible. She tried to recall what questions she had asked him at dinner. Not many. Dinner had centred mainly on conversation dominated by Uncle Arthur. She said the first thing that came into her head.

‘Aunt Fenny tells me you were at Chillingborough.’

He nodded. They were not dancing close, but the realization that he never took his eyes off her was almost as inhibiting as that over-close proximity men occasionally attempted and sometimes embarrassingly established.

‘It’s Daddy’s old school,’ she said.

‘I know. I hope he survived the experience.’

‘Yes, I think so.’ She did not know what else to say.

‘Good, I survived it too.’

A turn or so.

‘Have you been in India long?’

‘Six months.’

She wondered whether to him that was a short or long time. ‘Aunt Fenny said you were in the desert.’

‘Mostly a euphemism for Cairo. But yes, I was for a time in what’s called the desert.’ A pause. ‘Shall I ask the questions now and give you a rest?’ She glanced up. His smile was remote. His skin, close to, had a coarseness of texture which she felt she ought to dislike, but didn’t. ‘How was your boy-friend?’

‘My boy-friend?’

‘The chap you took goodies to.’

But just then the band stopped on an up-beat and a clash of cymbals.

He shepherded her to the table. A bearer was unloading glasses and bottles from a tray. Only three of the five other men were sitting there.

‘Isn’t it on the early side for dropping out?’ Clark asked. The one with a blond moustache said, ‘No one’s dropped out.’ The others agreed. She thought: They don’t like Clark: and recollected that he was a stranger to them. Perhaps they
assumed from Clark’s proprietary attitude that his earlier connection with Colonel and Mrs Grace was of a more intimate kind than their own and gave him rights in her which her aunt and uncle accorded formal recognition. It might not even be obvious to them that until today she and Clark had never met. She felt like saying something that would make the position clear, and was conscience-stricken by the fact that in spite of introductions she was uncertain of their names. To the blond moustached one who asked her what she would drink (Freddie? She would have to listen more closely) she said, ‘Do you get kicked out if you only want coffee?’ He said something about letting them try and coffee it was but what about having something with it, for instance a sticky green? To please him she agreed before the penny dropped that he meant
crême de menthe
. The order was given, the music started up and Freddie (or was he Tony? Why were men so often called by their diminutives?) said ‘May I?’ and was on his feet as if he had recognized his possible sole opportunity. She responded automatically and was in his arms, waltzing, before she admitted to herself that dancing with the blond-moustached man was the last thing she had wanted to do. She had noticed the heavy perspiration while sitting at the table. Mercifully he kept his distance, but his hands were wet. Susan said heavy sweat was the sign of a beer drinker which was why British Other Ranks perspired worse than officers.

‘Mrs Grace told me you’ve come miles to visit someone at the BMH.’

‘Well, just from Pankot.’

‘Where’s that?’

She told him.

‘I was there myself last month. The BMH I mean, not Pankot. Nothing romantic though. Appendix. These days they give you a spinal. Interesting looking up at the ceiling and sort of half feeling it all going on.’

‘It must have been awful.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Interesting. Looking up at the ceiling.’

She felt for him. Obviously he found dancing and talking incompatible too. She came out with it. ‘I’ve met so many people tonight I’ve got the names mixed up.’

‘Leonard.’

‘Mine’s Sarah.’

‘I know. Just now I nearly made an awful bloomer. At home I’ve got a Labrador dog called Sarah. Well, I mean she’s a she-dog. I nearly said, like you do when you’re thinking of something to say, “I’ve got a dog named after you.” I stopped myself in time but then my mind went blank.’ Their ankles made fleeting contact. ‘Sorry.’

She smiled. ‘Where’s home?’

‘Shropshire. I’m a Shropshire lad. There are poems about it, but I’ve never read them.’

‘What are you, a farmer?’

‘How did you guess?’

An image of Mr Birtwhistle’s fields and Mr Birtwhistle’s cows imposed itself behind Leonard’s corn-stook hair and fiery, dripping face.

‘I’m not really a farmer though. My father is.’

‘It’s a reserved occupation, isn’t it?’

‘Could be. But I’d only just gone in with him, and Dad’s not so old. He’s got Italian prisoners working for him. Says they’re all right. I’m not missed. Well, not for that.’

‘Will you go back to farming?’

‘Expect so.’ A pause. ‘Your uncle makes India sound fascinating, though,’ he added dutifully. They exchanged rather solemn glances. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘you’ve lived here most of your life.’

‘I went home to school. It works out about half and half.’

‘Would you recommend it? Living in India?’

‘Why, are you thinking about it?’

‘Well, it sounds all right, responsible job, lots of servants. Your uncle says it will be years before the Indians can do without us entirely. Up in the Punjab I went round one of those experimental agricultural stations and I thought then there’s a job I could do. A chap from England who knows a bit about farming looks at India generally and thinks he’s back in the middle ages. I mean I don’t know anything about politics or government or commerce, but I do know a bit about land. Some of the things you see make your hair stand on end. But then when I think of settling down here and getting married and having kids I don’t think I’d like it much. I mean sending
the kids back home wouldn’t be my idea of having a family. Am I wrong?’

‘I don’t know.’ She considered. ‘I’d hate never to have been home. I’d feel I’d missed something important that I was entitled to, the thing that makes me English. You go back to claim an inheritance. Then if you have children of your own you send them back to claim theirs. It’s part of the sacrifice parents have to make.’

‘I couldn’t make it. Even knowing that if I had a daughter, as well as a dog called Sarah, she might turn out like you if I did.’

She glanced up at him and felt his presence as a homely kindly man some girl other than herself would be fortunate to love and settle down with.

‘But then,’ he added, ‘I don’t think you’re typical. Young memsahibs usually scare me to death.’

She laughed; but for the rest of the waltz they both seemed to find it difficult again to think of anything to say. As he led her back to the table he said, ‘Are you really going back tomorrow?’

‘I should.’

‘You mean there’s a chance not? That film at the New Empire isn’t rotten. I could sit through it again any day. But perhaps you’ve seen it too?’

‘Oh, in Pankot we never get anything new.’

‘May I ring you then, in the morning? You’ll know by then, won’t you, what you’ve decided?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll ring you. At ten o’clock.’ He delivered her up to Major Clark. On her section of the table there was coffee and brandy. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Clark said. ‘I changed the order because I didn’t think you looked like a girl who drank sticky green.’ The chairs had been moved, too. She and Clark were now subtly isolated from the others. There were still two absentees. They arrived as the band started up again – the pale officer who had been tipsy and now looked paler than ever and the dark-haired boy whom she was pretty sure was Tony. As they approached the table Clark whispered to her, ‘Let’s dance again. I’ll tell you why presently.’

A foxtrot. She hated foxtrots. She longed just to sit and
drink her coffee, but went back on the floor. Clark said, That man’s been sick. They ought to send him home.’

‘He was all right at dinner.’

‘Not really. And the air’s hit him. I’ve suggested to the others he ought not to stay.’

She looked in the direction of the table. The man in question was supporting his head in his hands. Two of the others were leaning towards him. The dark-haired boy had his hand on his back. It looked as if they were encouraging him to call it a day and leave while the going was good, before she and Clark returned to the table. Leonard sat watching with his arms on the table, dissociating himself from the argument. There were now more dancers, the floor was quite crowded. Her view was cut off. Clark said, ‘When this dance is finished would you do something for me?’

‘What?’

‘Go to the powder-room. I’ll show you where it is. I’ll come back for you in about ten minutes. It shouldn’t take longer.’

‘I don’t mind him being a bit high.’

He looked down at her.

‘I mind. So would you if he stayed. So would he tomorrow. He’s not just high. He’s over the edge. He’ll end up crying probably. Don’t you think so? Don’t you think he’s the crying type?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well I assure you he is.’ A pause. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d do as I suggest.’ He smiled. This time there was no trace of remoteness. She felt exposed to a sudden, inexplicable but encouraging warmth. Leaving go as the music ended, guided back through the doors between terrace and lounge, she was conscious of his body and of her own under its control and protection. Her elbow was held. ‘This way.’

‘Ten minutes,’ he said a few paces from a door. ‘I’ll be here. If I’m not, go back in and give me another five. Don’t stand outside, unless you don’t mind being pestered by strangers.’

She stayed in the powder-room for a quarter of an hour. Two Anglo-Indian girls came in. Her presence seemed to inhibit
them. They talked in low voices but she caught the lilt which, if their skins were light enough, helped girls like these to pass themselves off as natives of Cardiff and Swansea. She wondered what she would find to say to them if they joined the party. She stayed at the mirror until they had gone and then, coming out, found him waiting.

She said, ‘I thought I’d give it the five extra minutes.’

‘I’m afraid even ten was too many, so there’s a change of plan.’ He took her arm and led her into the lounge with the wicker chairs and tables and noisy men, and through into the arcade towards the street.

‘What’s happened?’

‘I’ll explain in a minute.’

Again he shooed boys and beggars. A taxi door was held open by one of the hotel bearers. She entered, understanding that he had sent the man to make sure of one.

The man’s ‘Salaam, Sahib,’ marked the passing of baksheesh. Clark spoke to the driver but she did not hear what he said. He might have given Aunt Fenny’s address. He joined her. The taxi moved.

‘What did you mean, ten was too many?’

‘Just that. He wouldn’t budge. And the others were no particular help. I’m sorry.’ He offered her a cigarette. Automatically, although not wanting it, she took one. ‘It’s a dreary place anyway. But then it’s all most of them have. I’ll show you something better. Unless you want to go home. It’s only ten-thirty, though.’