by Alec Waugh
‘I expect that’s what it was.’
But she knew it wasn’t. He had had a very special reason for preventing her from knowing that he was coming to Karak. He had wanted to take advantage of that one night in Raffles. That long speech about two people who were never going to see each other again snatching at an opportunity that would not recur. He had lied to her. All’s fair in love and war. Ah, but it wasn’t. How badly, how ashamed she would have felt if, Shelagh not being there, she had snatched at that opportunity. He had deliberately tried to trick her. He was a man you could not trust. I’ll be on my guard against him when he’s here, she thought.
She changed the subject. ‘Now what about this trip to the oil camp? I’d like to go. I should see more of the country.’
‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t go out too. That would give you all the chaperonage that you need, and it is time I was going there again. I spent all my last visit watching a cricket match, me a wet bob.’ He looked down the table and caught his wife’s eye. ‘I don’t think it would be a bad idea if I went to see the oily boys for a couple of days. I won’t suggest bringing you. If I do they have to lay themselves out too much. You and Lila could look after yourselves, couldn’t you? You’d probably welcome it: dining off scrambled eggs and coffee.’
‘I think that would be very nice,’ said Lila. As she said it she let her glance rest on Angus. It was the first time that she had showed any recognition of his existence. He had the sense of a whole world being overturned.
3
Annetta drove straight from the Resident’s lunch party to Aunt Ladda’s house, for her visit to Rhya in his monastery. Not only would it be the first time that she had seen him since he became a priest, but the first time that she had seen the temple where he was serving his novitiate. It was a small temple on the far side of the river. It had been recently repainted and regilded, and its red and gold were resplendent in the waning sunlight, yet it had an air of peace.
‘I’d like to walk round the temple first,’ she said.
The main hall was much like any other. A vast gilt Buddha was seated in the lotus position with one hand raised. Aunt Ladda went down on her knees, then back upon her heels, then bent forward, her head touching the ground. Ought I to do this? Annetta thought. After her marriage she supposed she’d have to. It would need practising. She gazed at the vast Buddha. She remembered the Old Testament teachings of her childhood; all those injunctions about graven images. She had been puzzled by anybody’s need to worship images. But now she could understand it. There was a sense of repose and happiness about this classic pose, and about the expression on the face as though it were endowed with the faith of the men who had chiselled it. On the steps below the Buddha was a close-packed conglomeration of flowers, lanterns, candles. A bowl of ashes was littered with the carved remains of joss sticks. A clock chimed the hour; it sounded like the chimes from a European belfry, yet there seemed something incongruous about the presence of a modern clock inside a temple. She looked slowly round her. She could not get used to a place of worship that had no chairs or pews. She looked up at the ceiling. What a difference between these ornate, flamboyant beams and the dim ‘fretted vault’ of an English cathedral. Yet there was the same atmosphere of peace, of reverence, of beauty.
They walked out into the courtyard. Along the low cloister was a succession of bronze Buddhas. Each stood on a chest in which the ashes of a family were kept. Each chest bore a little plaque with the family’s name on it. One of the Buddhas had a scarf across its shoulders, a present to the priest. Before several of them were bowls of flowers.
A narrow canal that was spanned by curved red bridges divided the temple from the dormitories and libraries. Beyond these were the barrack-type buildings in which lived the temple servants and the young students who came here, when their classes at the University were ended, to wait upon the priests and study under them. There were lawns and well-tended flower beds and washing lines. The dormitories and library, like the temple, were bright with red and gold, and roofed with ochre-orange tiles, yet there was the same atmosphere of repose and peace. Nothing could have been less like the cathedral close at Salisbury, yet she was reminded of it.
‘There he is,’ Aunt Ladda said.
A figure in a saffron robe came down the steps of the Library. Annetta stared incredulously. Was this really he? He looked so small. The eyebrows that she had thought diabolique at that first meeting struck an incongruous contrast with his shaven head. He was always so dapper; what was he doing with this loose robe, this bare right arm, these heavy sandals? Would she have recognized him had she met him in the streets with his begging bowl?
‘It is good of you to come,’ he said.
They walked to the low stone parapet that flanked the canal. Aunt Ladda sat between them in her role as chaperon. ‘Tell me about everything,’ Annetta asked.
There was probably not much that he could tell her that she did not know. She knew the routine of his day. The early rising in the dark; the setting out before breakfast with the begging bowl; the return for the first meal at seven; the first short service, then the period of meditation and of study; the second meal that had to be finished before twelve. Nothing could be eaten after it till the following morning; only water could be taken; and he could not eat more than his begging bowl contained. There followed the afternoon of study and of meditation; the second hour-long service, then the early retirement in the dormitory to the hard, unmattressed bed. All of this she had been told already by Rhya before he had entered the temple. But she wanted to hear him talk of it. It was the surest method of finding her way back to him. By talking of what was of importance to him, he would be in tune with her.
He spoke in a level voice. Leaning forward, watching him closely, she found it hard to believe that this was the dashing, carefree young sportsman whom she had met at that London cocktail party. Did he feel that he was the same person still?
She had thought he would have some amusing anecdote to tell her. It was an experience, after all, to walk round the streets in the morning with a begging bowl. But he did not make a story of it.
‘That’s really all there is,’ he concluded. He said it as though he had completed the recital of a lesson. He did not seem to care whether she was interested. He seemed very far away.
‘I know that you have to do this,’ she said. ‘That it’s your duty, that it’s expected of you. But apart from that do you feel that you are really getting something out of this; something for yourself?’
‘Oh yes, I’m getting something.’
‘What are you getting?’
He smiled. His smile made him seem even farther away.
‘I have had time to think,’ he said. ‘I never have before. I’ve rushed from one thing to another. I’ve never given myself time to think. I didn’t realize how important it was. I’ve been wondering since I came here whether that isn’t what’s wrong with the whole modern world: the lack of time to think. Meditation is so important. Perhaps it is everything. We were talking once, do you remember, about Montgomery’s memoirs; and the store he set by that. The first thing he did when he took over the Eighth Army was to move his staff into the fresh air, where they could swim, where they could think. Who has the time to think nowadays? We’re driving cars, watching the traffic lights, looking out for jay walkers, for the careless drivers; or we’re commuting in a subway, swinging from a strap. I read an article in some medical paper about the modern G.P. in England. In the old days, it said, the G.P. went on his rounds in a horse carriage. He’d see his patient, then, as he drove off, he’d think over his patient’s case. His next patient was twenty minutes away. By thinking about his patient while the horses trotted along an empty road, he often tumbled on the real cause of the trouble. Nowadays with all the paraphernalia of the Welfare State, with all those forms to fill up, with the hurry of getting from one place to another, with so much traffic on the road, he never has time to think over his last patient or about his next:
only a few moments of concentration while he is actually in the room with them, that’s not enough. Meditation, that’s what the world needs. That’s what I’ve learnt here. The need for meditation.’
He did not speak excitedly. But he spoke with a sincerity that she had not heard before. Something had happened, was happening to him here in this temple, with which she would have to cope. He would not be the same person when he came out. Everything depended on her being in tune with, this new person.
‘What has meditation led to in your case?’ she asked.
‘It’s hard to say; but after a month in a place like this you see things in different proportions. Some things seem more important, others less. You get a different set of values. There’s one sentence in the Sanskrit that runs through my head. “The world is a bridge; therefore build no house on it.” ’
4
Angus Macartney had spent the night in town. He had been to a cinema and retired early. He woke fresh, with a light heart. Lila was coming to tea that afternoon. He looked at the flowers on the centre table. They were beginning to fade. They would have sufficed him another day: but everything must be fresh for Lila. He would leave a note for the maid to change the sheets. He turned on the radio; dance music was coming through. He had not a trouble in the world. The telephone bell rang. It was Lila.
‘I’ll have to disappoint you.’
‘What, some ambassador arriving?’
‘No, no, just a woman’s reason.’
‘Then you won’t come at all?’
‘What would be the point?’
The lightness of her tone hurt his feelings. She thought of him in terms of one thing only.
‘When will we be meeting then?’
‘After the week-end sometime. I’ll let you know. I must be rushing now.’
She could not have been more … well, what was the word? not abrupt, but businesslike.
He turned off the radio. It no longer matched his mood. Those flowers would do another day. He tore up the note he had written for the maid. It was only half past seven but he wanted to get out of the flat quickly. In his office a large stack of reports awaited him. He would have plenty of time now to deal with them. He left the office at half past four, the hour when he had expected Lila. Why couldn’t she have come? He would have appreciated the peace of a quiet hour, when he could have talked gently, tenderly, without the urgency of desire. They might have come closer in that hour than in close-locked abandon. If she had truly cared, surely she’d have realized that.
He reached the estate shortly before sundown. His father was convalescent now, but he was considerably weaker. Each fresh assault took its toll of his powers of recovery. One day he would lack the strength to fight and his heart would fail.
He began to tell his father about the day’s transactions, but he soon saw that his account was making no impression. His father had lost interest in the day-to-day details of management. He was only concerned with the larger political issues. The moment Angus stopped talking, his father returned to the mood of monologue.
‘We are marking time during the King’s lifetime. Nothing will be done while he is here. The people love him. It will be different when he is succeeded by Prince Rhya. The people do not know the Prince; they have no personal feeling for him. He did not share their difficulties during the war. He is marrying an Englishwoman. They will not readily forgive him that. It will be easy to stage a coup d’état once he is on the throne. Then we can nationalize the oil. America will back us up. Point 4 for backward peoples. We’ll have the money and we’ll have the power. That’s the pattern. Coup d’état: call it a democratic movement; get U.N.O. on our side. Let the British run the oil if they want to; but as our employees; not as owners.’
The voice murmured on. It can’t go on much longer, Angus thought. The next attack might be the last. Those years in Japanese hands had made their impress. It was only in these last weeks that Angus realized how deep that impress was. It would be very lonely for him when his father died, when he inherited the business and the estate. While his father lived, marriage was scarcely a prospect to be considered, but with this house his own. … It was something, wasn’t it, to offer even somebody like Lila?
‘Our time will come, soon, very soon … the first step, then, the second step; warn the people, prepare the people, free the people … soon … very soon.’
The old man had passed the frontier of delirium: his eyes were bright, his hands fluttered outside the sheet, his sentences were broken into unconnected verbs and nouns and adjectives. ‘The first step … Royal visit … oil camp … warning … Union Jack … nothing now … nothing … first step … oil camp … first step counts … nothing now … nothing.’
5
Two days later, Studholme held his monthly gathering of notables. It was his first meeting since his promotion. He was in a cordial mood.
‘I suppose it is natural to imagine that one’s own good fortune coincides with that of those around one, but I cannot help feeling that the outlook here is a great deal brighter than it was six months ago. The Crown Prince is certainly a more serious man than I had supposed; or at least in the process of becoming one; I am, I may say, delighted with his future bride. So incidentally is the King. She has looks and character and common sense. She lunched with us this week and I was charmed; I am accompanying her shortly on a visit to the oil fields. I am expecting to enjoy myself, considerably.’
At the words ‘oil fields’, Angus started. Did his father’s rambling conceal a secret? When the meeting broke up, he touched Forrester’s elbow.
‘Could I have word with you?’
The Colonel’s car had a driver so they sat in Angus’s.
‘You’ll think I’m being ridiculous but I believe that something may happen when the Crown Prince’s fiancée makes that visit to the oil wells.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Nothing definite. One or two things I’ve heard.’
‘Such as.’
‘I’d rather not tell you. It would sound too silly.’
‘Very often those are the things that make most sense to me.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘That’s for you to decide. Thanks for the warning.’
Back at his office Forrester sent for Ahmed’s file. There was no recent entry. His cousin’s inquiries had concerned the political affiliations of his fellow workers. The names supplied had been filed and checked. Nothing of significance had emerged but to Forrester a nil report served its purpose. He rang for Mahmoud.
‘I want Ahmed asked immediately whether his cousin has shown any interest in Miss Marsh’s visit to the oil camp.’
Four days later Ahmed’s report came in. His cousin had shown considerable interest in Miss Marsh’s visit; had asked for a detailed time-schedule of her programme; a document which Ahmed had been able to supply. Forrester raised his eyebrows. What had put young Macartney on to this, and how had Ahmed’s cousin learnt so quickly that this visit was to be made?
He put a call through to Princess Ladda’s house. Annetta could see him the following morning.
6
Forrester and Annetta had exchanged a few words at the ball, but it was their first real meeting. He could understand what his nibs had meant by talking of looks, character and common sense.
‘I don’t want to alarm you but you know what policemen are,’ he said. ‘We play for safety and every prominent person, particularly a crowned head, is a security risk. Even Queen Victoria had attempts made upon her life. I have been warned that something may happen next week when you go to the oil camp.’
‘What might happen?’
‘I don’t know and the betting is a thousand to one against anything being attempted. The warning has come from a source that I have no means of checking.’
‘Are you suggesting that I should not go?’
‘You must decide yourself. But there is this point to be considered. If there is danger in the oil camp, then soon
er or later there will be danger here. I want to know what the danger is. I am in the dark. Personally I would like you to go out there. I would take every possible precaution. I would come out myself. If nothing happens, then all our minds will have been set at rest; but if something does happen, I have a chance of uncovering a plot against the throne. It may be easier to uncover it there than here. But as I told you I am in the dark.’
She looked at him questioningly. ‘How much danger do you think there is?’
He shrugged.
‘There is always danger. It is easy to be taken off one’s guard, but I promise you that I shall take every possible precaution.’
‘How do you think Prince Rhya would advise me?’
‘He would tell you not to go.’
‘But if he himself were threatened in that way, how would he act?’
‘You know him well enough to be able to answer that yourself.’
He said it with a smile. Of course there was no doubt of what he would do. Had he not always welcomed risks?
‘We go,’ she said.
Annetta was conscious of excitement, also of a feeling of importance that anyone should risk his life for hers—a sense too of pride, that she was able to contribute to Rhya’s safety. This might be an important thing for him.
‘Are you warning Sir Kenneth too?’ she asked.
Forrester shook his head. ‘If I were to, he would forbid your visit or insist on such strict security precautions I should stand no chance of finding out what’s in the air.’
‘I see.’
It occurred to her that she was being used as a decoy. Well and why not, one couldn’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you,’ she said. ‘Do you know a man called Francis Reynolds?’
‘I know the name.’
‘He is coming out here soon under most favourable auspices. He will meet everybody of importance. He will make an excellent first impression. But he is a man who cannot be trusted. He is capable of the dirtiest, meanest trick if it will favour his own interests. I know this for an absolute certainty. I advise you to keep a close check on all his movements here.’