by Paul Scott
‘But that’s what it came to.’
‘Only if you assume it’s more natural to raise the subject of overwork with the one officer you’d be willing to go on serving. But the natural way isn’t always the one they choose, is it? He may have been making a subtle complaint about me, to my face.’
‘I wouldn’t call Hosain a subtle sort of chap.’
‘All Indians have subtle minds if you put it like that. Often I prefer the word devious for uncultured fellows of Hosain’s stamp. I’m sorry if that offends you. You regular army people are rather touchy on the subject of army personnel, aren’t you? But I’m afraid my experiences as a police officer have blighted any enthusiasm I ever had for the idea that the simple fellow from the village is eager to prove his devotion to the raj.’
‘Oh.’
There seemed to be nothing else to say. On the other hand Teddie did not feel as shocked or unhappy as he guessed he ought to be. In the back of his mind there were crammed scores of case-histories which showed the relationship between white man and Indian in a holy, shining light; but none was pre-eminent, none actually came pushing through to the front to make him articulate in defence of this relationship. Merrick stood aside and Teddie hesitated, then went out on to the verandah. In any case Hosain was not a good example of the kind of man he wanted to be thinking of. He waited while Merrick closed and padlocked the door.
‘That was interesting, what you were talking about this morning,’ he said.
‘I’m glad you thought so. One courts a certain amount of unpopularity with that kind of thing. Myth breaking’s a tricky business. To make the facts at all palatable you have to leave people with the illusion that the myth is still intact or even that you’ve personally restored it.’
Teddie hadn’t the least idea what Merrick meant. He fell into step.
‘For a moment,’ Merrick said,’ – towards the end – I was made to feel I had the honour of the Indian Army in my hands entirely. The relationship between a man and his subject is very close. People tend to confuse them. It was impossible to leave the facts to speak for themselves. They had to be presented in the most charitable and acceptable light. Not necessarily so that people would leave the hall thinking well of me in spite of what I’d told them but leave it thinking optimistically about the future. One has to produce a positive response not a negative one. And the facts about the INA are a negation of most of the things the army, people as a whole, have believed in as a code of possible conduct.’
‘I can’t help feeling,’ Teddie began, and because he hesitated Merrick put a hand on his shoulder, to guide him. They had reached a radial intersection of the covered ways. It was quite dark now. They steered by instinct, usage and the star patterns of lit buildings. Continuing along the correct path to B mess Merrick allowed his hand to remain.
‘What? What can’t you help feeling?’
‘Well. That ninety per cent of the chaps who’ve joined the INA intend to come back over at the first opportunity. As you suggested.’
A moment or two elapsed before Merrick said, ‘But I suggested no such thing. You heard what you wanted to hear. You’ve proved the point.’
‘What point?’
‘That the facts aren’t as important as the light they’re presented in. What’s chiefly interesting about all this is that a lot of those men may persuade themselves they joined the INA because they saw it as the quickest route back to base, but I doubt very much whether that’s the true reason in more than a handful of cases.’
‘What do you think is?’
‘Herd instinct. Self-preservation. At the top among men like Bose it’s a combination of herd-leader instinct and self-aggrandizement. Patriotism doesn’t come into it. So neither does the question of loyalty. It will end up as a simple matter of two opposed views of legality, and even that’s going to be settled on a purely theoretical basis.’
‘How?’
‘You can’t hang ten thousand or more traitors.’
‘You can shoot the officers.’
‘Or just Bose? To encourage the others?’
‘Perhaps they’ll save us trouble and shoot themselves.’
‘Would you?’
‘Good God, yes. It would be the only way out, wouldn’t it? I mean if I’d done that and got recaptured.’
‘Even for a man who thinks himself a patriot?’
‘You said that didn’t come into it.’
‘I don’t think it does, but a lot of them will think they are patriots.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. But there are still a few things one just doesn’t do. I don’t blame the other ranks so much but I find the idea of King’s commissioned officers leading their men – our own men – against us utterly unspeakable.’
‘Beyond the pale?’
‘Yes, beyond that. Whatever it means.’
‘It means outside,’ Merrick said, taking him up rather too literally. ‘Pale, fence, boundary. Where you draw the line between one thing and another. Between right and wrong for instance.’
‘The line’s already there, isn’t it? We don’t have to draw it.’
‘There was a British officer at Farrer Park too,’ Merrick said. ‘He told the Indian prisoners that from now on they had to obey the Japanese as they’d obeyed the British. I don’t think he meant obey in quite that sense, but it’s something that may cause trouble when the legal rigmarole begins, which it will, when the war’s over. Assuming we win it.’
‘A British officer?’
‘A senior British officer.’
‘You didn’t mention that this morning.’
‘I thought it wiser not to.’
Teddie nodded. He felt oddly light-headed. He had a sensation of not being quite himself and at the same time of recognizing Merrick as one of the most unusual men this other self had ever met. He felt himself being drawn out, enlarged. This was dangerous because if you were enlarged there was more of you and the world was still exactly the same size. It didn’t get bigger to make room for you.
The ante-room of B mess was almost empty. It was not a place in which you would ever feel at home. Its atmosphere was transitory like that of a waiting-room. Teddie was glad to have Merrick with him. He ordered scotches and sodas and thought it would be pleasant to get mildly drunk. Or even quite drunk.
‘When is the wedding?’ Merrick asked.
‘December, or earlier.’
‘Earlier, surely? We’ll be gone from here in a couple of months. Once that happens you’re unlikely to get an opportunity.’
‘I thought sort of leave during our jungle training period, or just after it.’
‘I shouldn’t count on it. If you’ve really decided to marry I’d advise going ahead as soon as possible. Here in Mirat, for instance. There’s a hill station called Nanoora not far away. You could go there for the honeymoon. If you’re lucky you might get a second honeymoon about Christmas or just after, but my guess is you won’t.’
‘You seem well-informed.’
‘Well-advised. You’ve talked to Selby-Smith presumably?’
‘Oh, yes. Well, I’ve raised the subject. He knows and so does the General.’
‘I’d press it if I were you. Ask for a clear statement. Of the situation.’
He emphasized the last two words. They began to repeat themselves in Teddie’s head. The situation. The situation. What situation? Getting married was the simplest thing in the world. All you needed was the girl, the ring, a padre and a few minutes to spare, and that was it. The catch was in getting the few minutes and in extending them to hours, days, a week or two. The situation was one of time, not having enough of it to be able to call any of it your own, except by arrangement, by permission. Your whole life was subject to permission one way and another.
Teddie frowned, gulped his scotch and soda. Everyone’s life was lived by permission. Whose? There were plenty of people around whose permission you had to seek but to give permission they had to have it themselves from somebody else. Where the he
ll did it all lead? Where was the highest, the final authority? One ought to know because logically it was this highest final authority that was creating the situation that made a simple thing like marrying Susan so damned difficult.
He called the bearer over again, ordered two more burra pegs, smiled aside Merrick’s attempt to make the second round on him.
He said, ‘I suppose one’s wedding should be the most important day of one’s life. To other people it’s a sort of irritation, isn’t it?’
The belief that he had made an unexpectedly profound statement about the comparative unimportance of the individual in the wider general scheme of things pleasantly aggravated the notion he had this evening of not being quite the man his friends would recognize. Merrick, he thought, was looking at him with the intense regard of someone more finely attuned than most to another person’s potential. He felt encouraged to further profundity but found the way down to it blocked. He said, ‘Are you married, Merrick?’
Merrick was drawing on a cigarette. He took his time, inhaling and exhaling. ‘No, I’m not.’ Each word was marked by a wreath of ejected smoke. Teddie was left with an impression of a sad history in this respect, of what they called a torch being carried. Perhaps the heat of the torch explained the cool bright blue of Merrick’s eyes. Everyone had his defence. He supposed cheerfulness was his. Recently he had found the smile on his face a bit on the heavy side. Underneath it there were these pressures. Mostly sexual, he imagined. He recollected the soft flesh of Susan’s inner arm, just near the elbow. He signed for the second round, raised his glass and said, ‘Cheers.’
Unaccountably the second whisky went straight to his head. Denied physical intimacy with Susan who at this moment represented all women he craved the substitute; intimate accord with some man, here represented by Merrick who sat admirably composed, self-possessed, with all those hidden muscles relaxed but doubtless reassuring to him, sources of self-confidence as they were of Teddie’s envy and grudging respect. It occurred to him that Merrick was – how could he put it? – a mystery that attracted him. He found himself telling Merrick about his parents, about Hunter and the abortive search for his mother’s grave in Mandalay. On Merrick’s clear, handsome but experienced face he saw an expression that encouraged him to feel more in control of his affairs, more intelligent about the significance of a history which it surprised him to discover he had rather a lot of. Talking to Merrick made him feel that he’d almost made a contribution to the totality of the world’s affairs. He believed that Merrick cottoned on to this and was assessing the contribution accurately and appreciatively. It pleased him that Merrick continued to look interested and to ask him questions because this suggested to him that Merrick didn’t dismiss the contribution as negligible. With his third burra peg, which Merrick signed for, Teddie acquired a certain self-conscious tenderness towards him.
He also felt sick; rather suddenly. The medicine had cemented him up at one end perhaps but not at the other. He wondered whether the feeling would go away if he ignored it. He embarked on a description of Susan and said what a marvellous girl she was, what a lucky fellow he was. The more he thought about it (he said) the luckier it seemed to him he was. Pretty girls were usually frivolous, weren’t they? She was damned pretty but terrifically sensible as well as fun to be with. ‘I’d like you to meet her,’ he said. ‘You will if we do what you suggest and get married here.’ That sounded like a good idea: to show people in Mirat what a fine girl he’d got hold of. His forehead was damp.
‘Are you feeling bad again?’ Merrick asked him.
He said, ‘It’ll go off in a minute. It had better because I’ve decided to get pleasantly pissed tonight and that always takes me a fair time.’ He signalled the bearer for two more scotches but Merrick said, ‘Not for me. I’m not a great drinker. In fact there was a time when I hardly touched it. It used to amaze me how much some people could put away. It was Sundernagar that got me into a regular habit. But two in a row is still about my limit before eating.’
‘My uncle actually taught me to drink,’ Teddie began, remembering himself at seventeen and the evening session in Shropshire with the decanter and his uncle’s dedicated but critical eye; but then stopped short of explaining why: that his uncle said that a good head for good liquor was one of the few things that still distinguished a gentleman from others. But Merrick appeared to cotton on to that too. He said, ‘Mine was the kind of family that never kept drink in the house except at Christmas and then it was port.’
‘My uncle’s a port man,’ Teddie said, intending to encourage. ‘He’s always talking about putting some down for me, but I’ll be surprised if he does.’
Merrick smiled. ‘This was the sort that doesn’t get put down. Australian port type. When I was a boy I thought all wine was port and that all port came from Australia. It’s the sort of thing that makes life difficult for clever children from humble families. One suffers disproportionately. The young are extremely unkind to each other and their elders aren’t always free from prejudice. I doubt there’s a more unattractive sight than that of a schoolmaster currying class favour by making fun of the boy in his form whose background is different from the others. It’s the kind of situation in which it’s as well to be tough as well as clever. Fortunately I was both.’
‘What school was this?’
‘A grammar school. But my natural element would have been the local county. I got into this other place on a scholarship and my people were very proud of that. They weren’t exactly poor but they were poverty-stricken in comparison with other parents. And lower-middle-class. By those standards. I took up boxing and found my own level.’
‘Do you still box?’
It was the only thing Teddie could think of to say.
‘No. But it was my athletic skill as much as my academic achievement that got me into the Indian Police. Those and the interest taken in me by the assistant headmaster. He taught history which happened to be one of my best subjects. I owed him a lot. We kept up a correspondence after I came out, right up until the time he died.’
‘I was an awful duffer at school,’ Teddie confessed. Like his confidential report from Staff College, recollection of his scholastic stupidity and only average capacity at games caused him no regret: certainly no shame. School, after all, was only part of the adult arrangement to keep children out of the way while they were growing up. He supposed it was different for people like Merrick’s parents, but he imagined there was a similarity somewhere. In any case here they were, the two of them, arrived on the same sofa in the same place with the same rank and the same privileges, sharing the same room and the same servant who, as it happened, preferred Merrick who hadn’t been born in a world where servants figured and port got put down.
At once he remembered the bicycle and the chalk marks and the idea he had had that these were a message to Merrick, a warning to Merrick by an INA sympathizer who had found out that Merrick was taking a detailed interest in the subject and perhaps that he was lecturing on it that morning. But just what a bicycle and cabalistic signs had to do with either the subject or Merrick’s involvement was a mystery.
He said, ‘Does a bicycle have any special significance for you, old man?’
He had never seen such a change in a fellow. At least, he couldn’t remember seeing one. It was brief but – there was no other word for it – electrifying. The tingling sensation communicated itself to Teddie. For a moment Merrick looked as if he had been made by a machine and was waiting for someone to come and disconnect him so that he could collapse back into his component parts because there was no possibility of his being galvanized by the vital fundamental spark. Subsequently what puzzled Teddie was that he should have thought about the change in Merrick in such terms. He wondered whether he was becoming over-sensitive, whether he had picked up something that had attacked his nervous system, speeded up his reactions and sent his imagination out of control. Something odd had been happening to him ever since he arrived in Mirat. There was th
at peculiar fancy he had had about the spare bed as a burning ship or catafalque. Perhaps he had been affected by the aeroplanes. The height had hurt his ears and after each flight it had been a day or two before his hearing was really clear again. That sort of thing could upset your physical balance so there was no reason why it shouldn’t upset your mental balance too.
‘A bicycle?’ Merrick asked. ‘What do you mean, special significance?’
‘Well I don’t know. Is it a sort of symbol of the INA?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. Why?’
Teddie told him.
‘Just that?’ Merrick said, when he had explained. ‘A broken bicycle?’
‘Well there were these chalk marks. I’m afraid I scuffed them out.’
Presently Merrick said, ‘What a pity.’ He sipped some of the scotch remaining in his glass. ‘Do you remember the marks in any detail?’
‘I’m afraid not. I say, do you think I was right?’
‘About what?’
‘The INA.’
Merrick did not reply for a while. He was inspecting the palm of his left hand. He said, ‘Possibly. Have you told anyone else?’
‘I asked Hosain. He didn’t know what I was talking about. I expect the beggar thought I was accusing him of something.’
‘I see. Well that explains that. He did say or at least imply you’d questioned his honesty. But I never listen to complaints from servants about other officers. That’s why I was ticking him off. Have you mentioned the bicycle and the marks to anyone else?’
‘No.’
Teddie, sensing a secret, felt privileged.
‘Then I shouldn’t.’ He looked at Teddie’s glass. ‘Let me get you another of those before we eat. To kill the bugs.’ He called the bearer over. Ten minutes later when they got up to go into the mess Teddie felt euphoric. At dinner he drank beer. Afterwards he drank several brandies and Merrick drank one. Without Merrick to guide him he might have lost his way in the maze of covered walks. By the time they got back to their room Teddie was satisfactorily several over the eight but still on his feet. He protested when Merrick helped him take off his shoes. He did not remember getting into bed.