The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy (32 page)

Eventually, Jock interrupted his own monologue, with a grudging ‘Och, we'd better be on the move if we're going to move!', and we climbed up into the cab with him.

It appeared that he had had an extensive argument with the unlucky Corporal Fucking Warren, triumphing in point after conversational point. Between his verbatim reports on this, he informed us that we were going to Indore, officially to deliver something he called Furniture, office, desk one, clerks for the use of.

‘We'll have a bit of a booze, Di, and then drop in on this knocking shop, okay? So this other bloke comes up and just stands there sort of looking like, so I puts my brush down and I says to him, “And what are you fucking staring at, mate?” I asks. “Have you no' seen a man on fucking jankers before?” So he gets all nasty then. “I've done more jankers than you've seen pay-parades,” he says. “Then you can do my fucking jankers for me,” I tells him, “if you're so fucking keen!” …'

I rolled the window down and we moved through the barrier at the gate, where McGuffie had shown his pass without breaking the flow of his discourse. All about us was India, as ever tangible as a warm breath on the cheek, its electric forces such that the voluptuous evening sky flickered constantly. What a mystery! And somewhere ahead, in some filthy dodgey little building was a young girl – sold into prostitution by her impoverished parents – who would recognize me and come lovingly into my arms. If the eloquent McGuffie did this run regularly, I could visit her regularly. How much could I afford a week out of my beggarly pay?

Di nudged me. ‘Wake up, Stubby! Jock's asking you if you're much of a boozer?'

‘I'm looking forward to getting at the
bibis
,' I told him.

‘Are you now? Well, we're going to have a wee drink first, if it's all the same to you, seeing as this is my excursion!'

‘Good.' I had to make myself agreeable. ‘I could do with a beer.'

‘Could you now? You'll no' be buying the first round, I suppose?'

‘
Thik-hai.
I don't mind buying the first round.'

‘Och, well, you may have t' buy all the fucking rounds, laddie, for I haven' an anna till pay-day!' Struck by the humour of this, McGuffie roared with laughter and we nearly ran down a couple of Wogs by the roadside. Fortunately,
they were young and agile. Di also was laughing, which seemed unnecessary.

‘How are you going to pay for your
bibi
, then?' I asked.

‘Oh, they'll let old Jock McGuffie in for free – he's only got a wee one!' He and Di Jones bellowed with laughter again. This time I joined in too; any man who could make jokes about the smallness of his tool was obviously a real humourist.

‘Indeed, the terrible fellow has a weapon on him like a cucumber,' Di said, still laughing.

‘How much do you reckon they'll charge, Di?' I asked. ‘Will it be more than five chips?'

‘Will you stop worrying, sonny? Och, with the three of us going in together, they'll let us have it wholesale!' More laughter.

Through the window, the lights of Indore shone ahead: dull, sullen, guttering lights, just as I had hoped. We bumped through the ghastly outskirts, where a small market was being held. Figures were everywhere, adults interwoven with fast-moving lads; faces with bright eyes, lit by solitary oil-lamps, to be distinguished behind counters or piles of fruit. As always, there was music and stink – the basic senses were never segregated in United Provinces. I hung out of the window, intoxicated by it all. There were cows ambling about the paths or jostling between stalls, ancestral motorcars trundling beside us, and men in topees, though starlight was upon us. We passed an enormous factory – ‘Cotton,' Di Jones said, wisely – and I glimpsed dozens of men parading under a corrugated-iron roof, picked out by floodlights. Then we were moving between blocks of flats, and could see how they teemed with life on every storey. What sort of incredible life could go on in there?! As if asking themselves the same question, huge pink faces of film stars glared down at us from above a cinema, their features picked out in green and mauve. With a shock, I recognized they were intended to be Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake, viewed through the distorting waters of Hindu culture.

It was impossible to decide where the centre of an Indian town was. There was no centre. We stopped at a non-centre and were instantly surrounded by beggars. Jock McGuffie jumped to the ground.

‘Fuck off out of here, you ragged-arsed heathens! Get
fucking weaving the lot o' ye, before I get a machine-gun to you and do for you once for all!'

We climbed down, and I asked (Oh God, we were nearly there!) nervously, ‘Are you going to deliver the office desk, Jock?'

‘Deliver the office desk? Eh, Di, you've got a right one here and no mistake! Deliver the office desk, is it? Look, sonny, I'm no' delivering any fucking desk for you nor anybody in my free time, I'm telling you! I stop work at four, sharp, I do, war or no war, sonny boy, and that's your lot—'

‘Okay, okay, I just thought that's why we came to Indore—'

‘Did you, now? Well, it wasna what
I
came to Indore for, I can tell you that for free, eh, Di?'

‘I came for a beer,' Di said, adding, ‘Stubby's a good old boy-o, it's just he didn't grasp like that the desk was what you might call an official pretext.'

‘That bloody desk stays in my
gharri
until I say otherwise,' Jock said savagely. He grabbed one of the Indians standing about and told him to guard the lorry until we returned. The chap was very dark and shining, with yellow eyes, and sores all down one leg. He smiled tolerantly.

‘How much you give me, sahib?'

‘We'll give you five rupees between us, Johnny,
thik-hai?
Five rupees,
paunch rupee. Malum?
You guard it proper, Johnny. What's your name?'

‘Ali, sahib.'

‘Och, you're all called fucking Ali! No' a fucking Donald among you! Can't you think of any other bastarding name to call yourselves but Ali? What's your other name?
Tumhara nahm kia hai?
'

‘
Baraf
, sahib.' The man giggled, and the crowd giggled in sympathy. Jock silenced them with a look.

‘Not a fucking MacPherson among the bloody lot!
Thik-hai
, Ali Bugger-Off, you guard my
gharri
till I get back,
malum
? And if anybody so much as lays a finger on it, I'll have your guts for garters, okay?'

We walked off, leaving Ali Baraf in charge.

Di looked thoughtful. ‘Five chips is a lot of moolah, Jock, man.'

Jock stared at him incredulously. ‘A lot of moolah, is it? You don't think we're going to pay the puir wee bastard, do you, 'cos if so you've got another think coming!'

‘You should keep your word to the lower races or they will never respect you.'

Jock threw back his head and laughed. ‘You fucking ignorant Welsh git, you! Don't tell me that puir wee bastard expects to get paid! – He's guarding that truck for the privilege of it, nothing more. He knows as well as I do that if he makes a fuss when we get back, I'll kick his arse right out of his fucking dhoti!'

The state of Indore was one of the Princely States; in some of the more independent ones, like Hyderabad, the Army was almost entirely banned; here, it was allowed only on sufferance, and we saw few troops. Bold as brass, we marched up the middle of the crowded street, calling and laughing – much like the people round us, only they were less pugnacious about it.

Trees grew on either side of the road. Goats were tied to many of them, nibbling at the bark so vigorously that it was a wonder the trees survived. Trams clattered by, packed with people, decked with people, sending their blue sparks among the leaves of the trees. Insects bumped about the hanging street-lights, to splash at our feet. Beggars with heroic deformities lay juddering in the gutter, men peed against walls, hawkers shouted their wares. The universe was crammed with life, bursting from the foetid loins of Brahma.

‘Dirty buggers! It's worse than Sauchiehall Street on a fine Saturday – ye canna hear yourself speak!'

‘Cardiff was never like this!'

A man ran up and tried to sell us a carpet. Jock dismissed him and turned down a side street. It was darker here, and more barbarous. A hotel stood on one side, a balcony above its main door.

‘We'll sit up there!' Jock said, pointing.

‘Looks pretty full,' I said. The balcony was crowded with black faces.

‘They'll make room for us. I know the proprietor. I've been here before. Just you let old Jock take care of you.'

So we barged in, into a crowded and shabby little dining-room. Jock started roaring for service and the manager came up. He was huge and ungainly and wore a light blue Western-style suit. His crumpled brown face lit with delight at the sight of Jock.

‘So, you escape from the detention again, Mr. Jock!'

‘Och, then, you're still here, you fucking robber! They haven't cut your throat yet! Have you chucked out that dirty manky beer you poisoned me with last time I came?'

‘We keep some special beer to finish you up this time.'

‘Getting your own back on the British Raj, eh?'

‘Yes, yes, ha ha, I get my own back on the British Raj! I kill all men with the filthy Indian beer!'

‘Kill the officers first, that's all I ask.'

‘We kill the officers first and the Scotchmen last.'

Jock roared with laughter, and he and the proprietor clumped upstairs, patting each other on the back – quite a feat, since Jock was almost a yard smaller than the Indian. Di and I followed.

‘Get a few beers inside us, Stubby,' Di said. ‘Then we'll tackle these
bibis.
Don't be impatient. Get yourself fortified properly.'

‘I need a woman.'

Jock heard my remark. To his Indian friend he said, ‘Our young Sassenach pal here, he's fair desperate to get the dirty water off his chest! Are you selling your daughter again tonight?'

‘Yes, yes, I sell my daughter. Very much recommend.'

‘You tried her out last night yourself, eh, you old sod, you! Bring us some beer first – and this time, don't fucking piss in it in the kitchen, eh?'

‘No, no, tonight I not piss in the beer! Next time you come I do it.'

‘You try it and you'll get a bunch of fives right in your clock!'

Laughing, he showed us on to the balcony – crowded, as I had observed from the street, mainly with portly Indians eating snacks or drinking local hooch. The proprietor went over to one table and, with a multitude of gesture, persuaded the four men sitting at it to leave. They rose reluctantly, frowning in our direction.

‘Don't you pull your bloody faces at me!' Jock exclaimed. ‘Come on, speed it up,
jao
, we haven't got our own back for the Black Hole of Calcutta yet, and don't you pack of
babus
forget it!'

‘Seems a bit hard when they're enjoying their evening,' Di said.

‘A bit hard? Are you out your fucking mind, Di? These bastards sit here getting fat drinking their bastard
todi
, and
if it wasna for the British they be kissing some fat Japanese arse by now, wouldn't they? They should be fucking grateful. Away with you, you miserable foreign gits!'

We sat down. A waiter rushed to bring bottles of beer, sloshing the liquid quickly into three glasses.

‘Ahh! Gnat's piss!' exclaimed Jock, drinking deep. ‘More beer, you slack bastards! Keep it coming! Dinne stop till you see it spurt from my ears!'

An hour later, we were still there drinking. It was pleasant on the balcony. The mosquitoes were not biting too much and the beer – despite my haunting suspicion that the proprietor had surely pissed in it – was tolerable. Jock had quietened down now that all his wants were being attended to and was telling us some unlikely stories; Di and I had to do no more than supply a sort of chorus.

The next time Jock called for another round, I said, ‘No more for me, Jock. There are other things I want to be doing.'

‘No more beer? You canne be full already, sonny! Have another drink like a man! Waiter,
ither ao
, three more beers,
jhaldi
– and for Jesus' sake make it three that haven't been standing in the sun all fucking day. You're like all the fucking English, Stubby, you canne take your liquor! Why, you're no' even
smoking
seriously!'

‘Oh no? Then where the fucking hell do you think most of this twenty packet of Wog Players has gone? Up my arse?'

‘You don't call that
smoking
, do you? You're just an amateur at it, isn't he, Di? I tell you, I was smoking before I was weaned. Aye, I was! Smoking before I was weaned! My ma couldna afford to feed me, so she kept me at the tittie until I was three years old, by which time I was filching Woodies off my older brothers. Now get this beer down your throat and don't piss about.'

‘I don't want any more beer, fuck it, I want some fucking intercourse – get that through your sodding thick Glaswegian head!'

‘This is the sort of tricky bastard we were up agin at Bannockburn!'

‘Let's go over to the whorehouse, Jock – we can have another drink afterwards,' Di said.

‘Are you two ganging up on me? I havene started drinking!' But he poured the beer a little faster down his throat and finally scraped his chair back. I rose in relief and found that the weak beer had a certain effect.

The proprietor came hurrying, flexing every crease in his blue suit. The business of paying went more smoothly than I had expected. It appeared that Jock had some money, after all. As he settled up, the manager called a boy to run round to the brothel and announce our coming.

‘Come on round with us, man – nobody will pocket the silver!'