Motherland

by William Nicholson

  She becomes more beautiful to him every day. Larry loves to look at her going about her work, unaware of his gaze. He has begun to think he would like to be more to her than a friend and colleague, but he hesitates to make any move. He’s afraid of finding his overtures rejected. After all, what has he to offer?

  He steals a moment to write to Kitty and Ed, which really means to Kitty.

  All is chaos and monsoon rain here as we prepare for Independence Day. There’s much talk of England, the benign mother, looking on proudly as the child she has raised now comes of age. I do think this is perfect nonsense. The Indians have been civilised far longer than us. And speaking personally, when I’m in the presence of men like Nehru and Patel, and of course Gandhi, I’m the one who feels like a child.

  I’ve been puzzling mightily these last days over my own future. When am I to win my independence? I expect that sounds odd to you, after all I’m almost thirty, but since I’ve been out here I’ve been having many new thoughts. What sort of life do I want to lead? Does what I want even matter all that much? I do so feel with you, Kitty, when you write that you want to be fully alive. I want that too. But at the same time I have this growing idea that chasing after what I want is not the answer. Perhaps I should think more of my responsibilities. A man my age, in my position, should do a useful job, and marry, and have children. Isn’t that so? If I’m to remain unmarried, and without an occupation, then what use am I? This is what you call a mission in life, I think.

  Anyway, I feel the world changing about me, in this historic moment, so maybe I’ll change too. I think of coming home soon. To what? At least I can look forward to long talks with you and Ed, and Ed can tell me it’s all luck and chance, and you can tell me I must learn to fly, and I’ll sit there smiling and nodding, just happy to be back with you again.

  After he’s finished his letter it strikes him that he hasn’t mentioned Geraldine, though she has never once left the forefront of his mind. Time enough to tell about her should there ever be anything to tell.

  *

  So the hour of midnight arrives, and with the dawn that follows the rains cease and the city is given over to parades and rejoicing. The national flag hangs at every window; saffron, white and green bunting festoons the trees. A huge crowd converges on Princes Park, where an arena has been built. In the centre of Princes Park stands a pagoda housing a giant statue of King George V; in a wide circle round it stand the palaces of the Nizam of Hyderabad, the Gaekwar of Baroda, and the Maharajas of Patiala, Bikaner and Jaipur. Today their windows gaze on a temporary dais and flagpole, where the flag of the new nation will be raised, and will thus eclipse the symbols of past power.

  Larry sets off on foot to watch the grand moment, in a group that includes Rupert and Geraldine Blundell, Marjorie Brockman and Fay Campbell-Johnson. It becomes very obvious very soon that the crowd is far bigger than has been anticipated. The entire length of Kingsway, all the way to India Gate, is packed solid with cheering, laughing, flag-waving people, all eager to reach Princes Park. The group from Government House presses on, showing their tickets to beaming officials, but by the time they get to the parade ground all semblance of order has collapsed. The crowd has swarmed over the reserved stands and taken possession of the chairs, standing on the seats and arms and backs.

  ‘Make way for the memsahibs!’ call out happy voices, as Larry and Rupert attempt to squeeze their companions through the throng. They get within sight of the flagpole and then can go no further. The crush is so intense that women hold their babies over their heads. Nehru himself can be seen struggling to get through to the central dais. Unable to make progress he climbs onto a man’s shoulders and walks in his sandals on the heads of the crowd.

  There comes a great cheer. All heads twist round. Larry catches a glimpse of the ADCs in white, followed by the fluttering lance-pennants of the bodyguard, and then the state carriage itself, carrying the new governor-general. Mountbatten is in his white dress uniform, with Lady Mountbatten, also in white, by his side in the open landau.

  Nehru, now standing on the central dais, waves his arms and calls for the crowd to let the procession pass through, but no one heeds him. Larry glances at Geraldine, held in the crush beside him, and sees that she has her eyes closed.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he says.

  She doesn’t answer.

  The carriage and its escort come to a stop, some way from the flagpole. It’s all too obvious that they can go no further. Mountbatten rises to his feet in the carriage, and gestures to Nehru to proceed. Nehru gives the signal, and the Indian tricolour rises up the flagpole. The crowd bursts into a giant roar. Mountbatten, trapped in the landau, takes the salute. A light rain begins to fall. The crowd discovers a rainbow in the sky: saffron, white and green. The cheering is redoubled.

  In the midst of all the noise, Geraldine begins to utter low screams. She has her eyes tight shut, her hands over her ears, and she shakes her head from side to side.

  ‘It’s all right,’ says Larry, putting his right arm round her. ‘It’s all right. I’ll get you out.’

  Holding her tight and close, he forces his way back through the cheering crowd, using his left shoulder to open up a space between the packed bodies. He feels Geraldine shaking, and hears her low screams, as he pulls her after him. At first their progress is slow, but as he works his way to the back of the crowd he finds they can move more easily. And so at last they emerge into a side street, where there is open space.

  He holds her in his arms and lets her sob.

  ‘There,’ he says, soothing her. ‘There, all safe now.’

  The sobbing ceases. She remains in his arms, her face pressed to his chest. He feels the jerky shuddering of her chest as her breaths come slower and slower. Then she turns away, to dab the tears from her eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘What a little fool you must think me.’

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ says Larry.

  ‘I don’t know what happened. Suddenly I started to feel trapped. I couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘You were trapped. That’s quite a crowd.’

  ‘But you got me out.’

  The light rain is still falling, bringing welcome refreshment on this burning day.

  ‘Come on. Let’s walk back.’

  *

  The next day Mountbatten hands Radcliffe’s award to Nehru, and cables it to Jinnah in Karachi. Within hours, the Punjab is in flames. Ten million people are on the move, seeking safety on either side of the new borders. Three hundred thousand Hindus and Sikhs flee Lahore. In Amritsar Muslim women are stripped naked, paraded through the streets, and raped. Sikh fighting mobs, armed with machine guns and grenades, descend on Muslim villages and slaughter the inhabitants. Muslims at Ferozepur attack a train carrying Sikh refugees, and kill all they can reach. What begins as hysterical fear mutates into hysterical rage.

  Hindu refugees begin to arrive in Delhi, bringing with them hunger, disease, and a poisonous lust for revenge. Within days the riots and the killings have taken over the capital. The main railway station, packed with Muslims trying to flee, is bombed by Hindus. In the subsequent riot police fire into the crowd. Looters smash Muslim shops in Connaught Circus. Muslim tonga drivers are dragged from their tongas and hacked to death. Arson attacks start fires across the city.

  All flights in and out of Delhi are cancelled. Syed Tarkhan is unable to make his transfer to Karachi. Rupert and Geraldine Blundell, due to fly home on September 8th, are obliged to remain in Government House, one of the few islands of security. Lady Mountbatten learns that hospitals are being attacked, and the wounded massacred in their beds. She requests that the troops protecting Government House, who are the governor-general’s bodyguard reinforced by the 5/6th Gurkhas, should add to their duties the protection of hospitals. She asks Larry and Syed Tarkhan to coordinate the allocation of guards.

  ‘No need to go into the city yourselves,’ she says. ‘Just make sure we do the best we can with the men we have.�
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  Syed Tarkhan is deeply distressed by the violence.

  ‘It’s only what you said would happen,’ says Larry.

  Tarkhan shakes his head.

  ‘I feel ashamed,’ he says. ‘I feel to blame.’

  So many staff have left that there is a shortage of both cars and drivers. Government House rents three Buick Eights, and one is made available to transport hospital guards. Larry learns that Tarkhan proposes to drive the car himself.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No, Larry,’ says Tarkhan. ‘There’s no need.’

  He means there’s no need for Larry to put himself in danger. This is no longer Larry’s country. But Larry too feels shame and blame.

  ‘Think of it as a last hurrah for the motherland,’ he says.

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Tarkhan smiles at that. ‘A noble gesture.’

  They pack into the Buick: a Gurkha lieutenant, three of his men, and Larry. Tarkhan takes the wheel. They drive across the city to Old Delhi. They encounter no trouble on the way, but here and there they see burned-out shops and overturned trucks.

  At the Victoria Zenana Hospital the Gurkhas take up their post, and Larry receives a report on the latest casualties from the nurse in charge.

  ‘Not so terrible.’

  ‘The mobs will be out after dark,’ says Tarkhan.

  They drive back through the deserted streets of the Paharganj area as the light fades in the sky. Crossing the overbridge by New Delhi station they hear shouts. Then comes a burst of gunfire, and the windscreen explodes into fragments. Tarkhan gives a grunt and tips over to one side, then with a convulsive movement rights himself.

  ‘Syed!’

  The car lurches out of control, heading for the parapet of the bridge. Tarkhan struggles with the wheel, panting loudly. The car shudders to a stop. Tarkhan slumps forward, blood pouring from his right shoulder. The engine cuts out.

  ‘Syed!’

  Before Larry can make a move to help him, an army lorry comes screeching up, and eight or nine armed men jump out.

  ‘Out of the way! Out of the way!’ They point their guns through the shattered windscreen. ‘This is for the Muslim scum!’

  Larry can hear from their voices that they’re beyond reason. They’ve come out hunting to kill, and they no longer care. The gun barrels jab at him.

  ‘Out of the way!’

  Half paralysed by terror, he realises dimly that he himself is not in danger. He is an Englishman. Their war is no longer with the likes of him. All he has to do is move aside and let the fratricidal rage take its course. These thoughts pass through his mind at lightning speed, even as his eyes fall on Tarkhan’s hands, which still grip the steering wheel. He hears the wounded man groan. He sees the fingers of one hand open and close. This simple human gesture is all it takes.

  ‘No!’ he cries.

  He throws himself across Tarkhan, embracing him, as if his arms have the power to shield him from gunfire.

  ‘Muslim scum!’ shout the armed men. ‘We shoot Muslim dogs! You will die too!’

  Larry pulls Tarkhan even more tightly into his arms, so that the blood from his wound runs down his own chest. He hears Tarkhan’s choking voice.

  ‘Go, Larry. Leave me.’

  The men with the guns tug at his sleeves, shouting. He closes his eyes and rocks his friend in his arms and waits to die.

  Now the shouting is loud and close. A gun fires, a single shot echoing in the night. He smells the smell of fresh blood. He hears Syed Tarkhan’s low groans. Then he hears another sound: the growl of the army lorry driving away.

  He draws a long deep breath. He becomes aware of the drumming sound in his ears, and knows it’s his own pulsing blood. Have they killed his friend in his arms?

  ‘Syed?’

  Tarkhan turns to him, groaning. He can see no fresh wound.

  ‘I’m taking you to the hospital.’

  He drags the wounded man into the passenger seat, and wedges him between the seat and the door. He starts the engine. Hand trembling on the gear stick, he reverses onto the road, and turns to drive back the way they came.

  At the Victoria Zenana Hospital the nurses stretcher Tarkhan into a ward and tear the blood-soaked clothing from his upper body. Larry stays by his side.

  ‘How badly is he hurt?’

  ‘He’ll live,’ they tell him. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’m not hurt.’

  Tarkhan has lost consciousness. A doctor comes and examines the single gunshot wound.

  ‘Smashed the collarbone,’ he says. ‘Lucky not to have got the main artery.’

  So that second gunshot missed its target. How could they miss, at point-blank range? Reliving its sound now in memory, it seems to Larry that the second shot was fired into the air. Why?

  He drives the Buick back to Government House alone, careless of any further danger. The warm night air streams through the smashed windscreen, bathing his face. A strange lightness of spirit has taken possession of him. He feels as if he has died and risen again and is now immortal.

  Entering Government House through the north door, he makes his way down the corridor, past the startled looks of servants, to the small office where Geraldine keeps her charts. He finds her there alone. She stares at him, mute with shock.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘It’s not my blood.’

  He opens his arms. Responding instinctively to his gesture, she comes into his embrace.

  He holds her tight, feels her trembling in his arms. He bends his head towards her, and understanding, she turns her face to his. He kisses her, clumsily at first. Then he feels her lips respond, and her body soften in his arms.

  When they part, there are bloodstains on her dress, and she is looking at him wonderingly.

  ‘Larry,’ she says.

  Suddenly it’s all so clear. He could have died back there on the overbridge, but he didn’t die. That second gunshot was a command that said: live. Time is so short, death comes so soon. While we have this precious gift of life we must cherish it. We must love each other.

  ‘I have so much love to give you,’ he says.

  ‘Do you, Larry?’

  ‘Will you let me love you?’

  He doesn’t ask for her love. That’s for her to give. This isn’t about his own needs or fears. This is about the life force within him, that’s pouring from him in a ceaseless stream.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes.’

  *

  Larry goes back to the Victoria Zenana Hospital the next day to find Syed Tarkhan sitting up in bed and drinking tea.

  ‘Larry,’ he says. ‘My brother.’

  ‘So you’re going to pull through, are you?’

  ‘I’m leaving, my brother. This afternoon I leave for Karachi.’ He holds out his hand. His eyes have never left Larry from the moment he entered the ward. ‘I will never forget you.’

  His limpid gaze speaks to Larry, saying, There are no words.

  ‘So you’re off to build a brand-new country,’ says Larry.

  ‘If God wills.’

  ‘I’ll miss you.’

  Tarkhan holds his hand tight, and nods and shakes his head at the same time, all the while looking into his eyes with his tender loving gaze.

  ‘It truly was a noble gesture, Larry,’ he says.

  31

  ‘Married?’ says William Cornford.

  ‘Well, we’re not married yet,’ says Larry. ‘But we’re going to get married.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ says his father, nodding his head. ‘This is very good news. Very good news. Cookie will be so excited. As am I. So who is she?’

  ‘Her name is Geraldine Blundell. Her brother was at Downside a year above me. So she’s a good Catholic, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

  ‘All I need to please me is to know that you’re happy.’

  ‘I’m very happy, Dad. You wait till you meet her. She’s very lovely, and very special. She’s been in India with her brother.’

  ‘So we ha
ve poor India to thank, do we? I don’t expect when you took yourself off there you thought you’d come back with a wife.’

  ‘It was the last thing on my mind.’

  ‘Well, my boy, I think this calls for a drink.’

  William Cornford fusses about in his library, searching through his bottles for something suitably celebratory. He settles on a single-malt whisky.

  ‘Now I know it’s none of my business,’ he says, his attention on the glasses, ‘but have you given any thought to what you’re going to live on?’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ says Larry. ‘I do realise I need a job.’

  ‘I rather think you do.’

  ‘I was wondering if you had anything going?’

  William Cornford continues pouring whisky, but now his hands are trembling. He hands Larry his glass. Not trusting himself to speak, he raises his glass in a silent toast.

  They drink.

  ‘Welcome to the company,’ he says at last, his voice throaty with emotion.

  *

  The Blundells live in Arundel. The marriage is to take place in the church of St Philip. Mrs Blundell has hopes that the Duke of Norfolk will attend, in his capacity as Earl of Arundel and head of the premier Catholic family in the land.

  ‘You know he’s also the first peer of the realm,’ she tells Larry. ‘As hereditary earl marshal he organised the coronation of the king. Not that Hartley and I care for titles as such. Really it’s the sheer weight of history that we find so moving.’

  Geraldine has warned Larry about her mother.

  ‘She’s one of those people who doesn’t really believe in failure. She sees it as a lack of moral fibre, I think. I can hear her now, saying to us children, “Do it properly or don’t do it at all.”’

  ‘She sounds terrifying,’ says Larry.

  But Barbara Blundell takes to Larry from the beginning.

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ she tells him, ‘you come as something of a relief after the last one. Geraldine is my special pet. You’ll forgive my partiality, but I think you’d have to look far and wide to find her combination of beauty without and beauty within. She deserves a husband of true faith and ample fortune. And since Bernard Howard has sired only daughters …’