Staying On: A Novel (Phoenix Fiction)

by Paul Scott

  The vestry door opened and Mr Ambedkar looked in.

  “Francis, may I have a word?”

  Calling him Francis was new. Having shut the door behind them the Reverend Stephen murmured, “I should explain about Father Sebastian while he is outside looking again at the churchyard. Who pays this boy Joseph?”

  “Sometimes I used to give him a few paise out of my own pocket. But now he is employed at the hotel he is all right. It is a labour of love for him. He is a Christian boy.”

  “Good. Good. Father Sebastian is very impressed with the way we have kept things up inside and outside. I had prepared him to expect it of course.”

  Mr Bhoolabhoy looked at his feet. A hand fell heavily on his shoulder, causing him to look up into the Reverend Stephen Ambedkar’s rather bloodshot eyes.

  “Something troubles you, Francis. O.K. O.K. I know what it is. Father Sebastian. What are you thinking, that we are going over to Rome and planning already a lady-chapel?”

  “No, no.”

  “I too could call myself Father. It is a matter of personal choice. It does not mean Rome necessarily.”

  Mr Bhoolabhoy grinned as brilliantly as he could in the circumstances. Was Susy right? Were they to have Father Sebastian instead of the Reverend Stephen?

  The Reverend Stephen let go of his shoulder, put both hands behind his back and led the way down the south aisle, pacing slowly. Mr Bhoolabhoy put his behind his and followed.

  “It is necessary finally,” he said, “to think what life is all about.”

  “Exactly,” Mr Bhoolabhoy said, suddenly having a vision of Mrs Bhoolabhoy who – at this very moment – would be checking Management’s accounts.

  “Like myself, Father Sebastian is much concerned in the ecumenical movement in India. If we are to advance —” and here he glanced round as if to check that there were no lurkers who would go back to report to Government that there was a plot afoot in the Christian Church to go for growth in India by stepping up the conversion business— “–if we are to advance we can only do so together. Now, Francis, let me take you into my confidence. You, you alone. I know I can rely on you not to gossip.”

  They halted. Mr Ambedkar looked down at him.

  “In two or three months I think I shall be going – Elsewhere.”

  “Ah,” Mr Bhoolabhoy said. Then added, “Oh,” wondering whether the poor Reverend Stephen was mortally ill.

  “Do not misunderstand, Father Sebastian is not my successor-to-be, but he may be in the area for quite some time and may fill in for a while if there is any difficulty about filling the living at Ranpur. One may call him in the meanwhile a supernumerary with a roving commission, very advantageous to us. I propose to send him up to you at Easter, in two weeks’ time. It may well work out that you will have a visit every fortnight instead of monthly. I think you can look forward to a happy year on that score. And perhaps, one day, to a permanent incumbent.”

  “Ah.”

  “I may tell you, again in confidence, that Pankot may in the not too distant future benefit from certain plans already afoot down in Nansera. The Nansera Valley Development Scheme. You have heard of this?”

  Mr Bhoolabhoy didn’t think he had. Only Mrs Bhoolabhoy heard of things like that. But the airfield in Nansera had itself brought greater prosperity and – at the time it was being built – an influx of engineers, technical experts and advisers: British, Indian, American, Eurasian, the men, their wives and families sometimes, some of them Christian. The Nansera Development Scheme, whatever it was, could hardly fail to do the same, and better. The hotel would benefit. The church would benefit. A rosy prospect opened before Mr Bhoolabhoy and some of its glow seemed to surround Mr Ambedkar like an aura.

  “We shall miss you greatly, sir, when the time comes,” he said, and was rewarded by a manly grip on his shoulder which happened to coincide with the reappearance of Father Sebastian who looked pleased by this evidence of comradeship between priest and lay-preacher, and joined the fraternity, placing his left hand on Mr Ambedkar’s right shoulder and his right on Mr Bhoolabhoy’s left.

  “What a beautiful church. Tell me, Francis, how quickly could you let me have photographs of the interior and the exterior? I should like them to illustrate an article I am doing for a magazine in Madras which finds its way all over the world.”

  . . .

  Father Sebastian had preached beautifully, taking as his text verses 17 and 18 and part of 19 from chapter two of Ecclesiastes: “Therefore I hated life, because the work that is wrought under the sun is grievous unto me: for all is vanity and vexation of spirit. Yea, I hated all my labour which I had taken under the sun: because I should leave it unto the man that shall be after me. And who knoweth whether he shall be a wise man or a fool?”

  Even Susy Williams looked mollified. The congregation, although at first almost visibly shaken by the contrast between Father Sebastian’s blue-black skin and the lily-whiteness of his laced surplice and none too happy when he sank to his knees during the creed when reference was made to the mother of Jesus, was not just mollified but positively hooked.

  The sermon was very funny. For the first time in his life Mr Bhoolabhoy heard little titters of barely suppressed laughter from the congregation. But it was happy laughter. The Reverend Stephen seated in the choirstall gave it both cue and countenance by smiling broadly at Father Sebastian’s opening sally: “I have always felt, you know, that the fellow who wrote Ecclesiastes suffered either from constipation or acute indigestion.”

  Mr Bhoolabhoy was entranced. The spirit of God moved across the still waters of his soul. And when Father Sebastian, judging the length of his first sermon perfectly, ended ten minutes later, sketching a Popish blessing while he spoke the words, Now God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, Mr Bhoolabhoy’s hand moved as if mesmerized across his breast.

  An immense peace settled in him. Mr Ambedkar came forward and said, “I asked Father Sebastian what last hymn we should sing and after consultation with Miss Williams he chose Hymn Number 391 in Hymns Ancient and Modern.”

  The congregation, already alerted to this rousing old favourite by the number on the board, rose happily. Mr Bhoolabhoy, clutching the collection bag, rose too. Mr Ambedkar had never liked Onward, Christian Soldiers. He had once described it as vulgar. He looked happy enough about it today though. And no one was happier than Susy whose favourite hymn it was, the one she had always played best of all, either on the organ or the piano. The opening chords crashed out. She had not lost her touch in spite of having been discouraged from playing it at services, although today she tended to ignore the p and the cr and the f and play everything ff, but this suited the mood of the congregation too, to the advantage of the collection bag that got heavier and heavier and crisper and crisper and was taking longer to pass from hand to hand than usual, so that Mr Bhoolabhoy had scarcely finished going the rounds by the time Susy reached the penultimate verse:

  (ff)

  Crowns and thrones may perish

  Kingdoms rise and wane,

  But the church of Jesus

  Constant will remain;

  Gates of Hell can never

  ’Gainst the Church prevail;

  We have Christ’s own promise,

  And that cannot fail.

  (ff)

  Onward, Christian soldiers,

  Marching as to war,

  With the Cross of Jesus,

  Going on before.

  . . .

  The two ministers had arrived that morning by train but were returning to Ranpur the same evening by air; so there was to be no evensong. It had been such an exciting happy day that Mr Bhoolabhoy thought this just as well. Another service would have been an anticlimax.

  Parting from the Reverend Stephen after morning service Father Sebastian had spent the rest of the day in Mr Bhoolabhoy’s company. They had lunch with Mr Thomas and tea at Susy’s. At six they went to Smith’s where Father Sebastian accepted a drink; two in fact (tall whisky-sodas; Mr
Bhoolabhoy stuck to gin and tonics). To drink these they sat on the verandah of the hut that had once been the airline office. Mr Bhoolabhoy was glad that Father Sebastian showed no curiosity about the inside of the hotel. Lila would still be doing the accounts and the new minister had a penetrating voice. Perhaps Mr Ambedkar had warned Father Sebastian that Mrs Bhoolabhoy was not someone it was necessarily rewarding to go out of one’s way to meet.

  At seven o’clock they walked round to the Shiraz where Father Sebastian and Mr Ambedkar were to catch the Indian Airlines bus. Both bus and Mr Ambedkar were waiting.

  “Don’t forget the photographs, Francis,” Father Sebastian said as he climbed aboard. Mr Bhoolabhoy said he would start making the necessary arrangements first thing in the morning and post the results to him before the end of the week. When the ‘bus had gone he walked down the road to the place where the spire of St John’s could be seen in silhouette against the evening sky. Then, content, he went slowly home.

  Reaching there he again settled on the verandah of the hut. There was a light in Lila’s room and in the lounge, but no other sign of life. Next year, or perhaps before this present one was out, the place might again be as it was in its heyday. They would have to decorate and get new furniture, restore the former air of quiet distinction and homely comfort. Not every visitor cared for the flamboyance of places like the Shiraz.

  When it had turned 7.30 he went over to the hotel, switched on the verandah light, plumped up the cushions in the lounge. In his cubicle he checked the register which Lila must have finished with because it was back in place. No one had booked in. There were no dining-room bookings either, which wasn’t to say no one would turn up, so he went into the dining-room to inspect the tables. As usual places were laid only sketchily. He collected missing knives and forks and spoons and cruets and napkins from the dumbwaiter.

  As he was doing this Lila’s door opened and a man came out. Mr Bhoolabhoy was so startled that it took him a second or two to recognize Mr Pandey, the lawyer’s clerk. Mr Pandey looked exhausted. He barely acknowledged Mr Bhoolabhoy’s surprised greeting, but murmured something and went to his own room. According to the register Mr Pandey wasn’t supposed to be in the hotel, not that the register was much to go by because often Mr Pandey failed to sign in, but Mr Bhoolabhoy invariably had a few days’ notice of his arrival.

  While Mr Bhoolabhoy was standing there wondering and entertaining vague suspicions about Mr Pandey’s relationship with Lila, Lila’s door opened again and she emerged with her hair down her back and across her massive shoulders wearing her shocking pink nylon negligee – a see-through outer robe and underneath it, also see-through but rendered opaque, a nightdress, of the same colour and material. Her feet were stuffed into pink mules with pink nylon-fur trimmings.

  “Ah, it’s you,” she shrieked. “Good. Poor old Mr Pandey. He wasn’t up to it any longer. What are you doing? Leave all that and wait for me in my room.”

  She billowed past him shrieking to the cook which was to say using her normal speaking voice, which Mr Bhoolabhoy often thought must be a contributory cause of her splitting headaches. To get to the kitchen you went out of the dining-room along a passage and then down another at right-angles to it and eventually reached the place where the food was prepared. She was audible to Mr Bhoolabhoy throughout this journey. At some point on her return journey she stopped talking to cook and started talking again to Mr Bhoolabhoy.

  She was, he realized, in a good mood, a pleasant surprise after a day spent checking the accounts.

  “Pour me a drink, Franky,” she was saying. “I am dying of thirst from all this question, answer, checking, checking and so much rigmarole with wheretofores and wheresoases and as before-saids. I feel worn to a shadow. I ordered a tandoori and a chicken curry. It will be ready soon. We will have it in my room. Come, come, come.”

  He followed her in and shut the door. The bed was rumpled, but it was also littered with papers of the kind Mr Pandey brought up from his law firm. Moreover the room was full of cigarette smoke and Lila only smoked during the day when she had business to attend to. She normally attended to it stretched out on the day bed, the settee, which she collapsed on to now as if resuming a position only momentarily abandoned. And Sunday was hair-washing day even if by this time of night she had usually put it up. Sunday was also deshabille day. So he must not harbour these dark thoughts. And as if certifying the innocence of the hours Mr Pandey may have spent with her, there was his brief-case, propped against the legs of the upright chair he must have been sitting on, a half emptied glass of orange juice on the table by its side. On the table in front of the settee there was a tray of drinks, Lila’s ashtray, a legal-looking document and a magnifying glass. The drinks were untouched as yet. Smoke she might, but drink never, until business was over.

  Mr Bhoolabhoy poured her a large Carews gin and tonic. Taking it she smiled fondly at him from under her moustache.

  “Have one yourself, Franky.”

  The “Franky” was an indication that he was in favour.

  “Cheers,” she said, had a good swig, put her head against the high arm of the settee. She was still smiling.

  “Did you have a nice day?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes. Very nice. And you, Lila?”

  “I had a nice day too. But, oh, quite exhausting. Only poor Mr Pandey has had a rotten day. Because of flying up this afternoon. He has never been in an aeroplane before.”

  “Flying up? Mr Pandey?”

  “You fly when you have to fly to be quick off the mark, whether you like it or not.” She drained her glass and held it out. Mr Bhoolabhoy replenished it. “Tomorrow he can go back by the midday train because the train gets in even earlier than the evening flight and anyway now everything is settled, signed and witnessed.”

  “What does this mean, Lila, my love? Settled signed and witnessed?”

  “It means, Franky, that at last I am going to make some real money. Come, sit with me. Tell me you still love me. What is money if one is not loved?”

  Tears sprang to her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “What is the life of a woman if she is not loved?” she said. He could not bear to see a woman cry. He sank on to the settee and began to kiss the tears away.

  “Ah!” she cried, clasping him. “My little Franky.”

  Realizing he was getting an erection he thought: I am seriously oversexed. I have only to touch or be touched by Lila and I am in this state. Perhaps I should have a word with Father Sebastian about it.

  “Ah,” she was saying again. “Oh, my Franky.”

  “What do you mean, my love, real money?” he murmured into her throat.

  “Real money is real money, but what is money? No – No!” she pushed him away, laughing, the tears drying. “Later, later – for now just give me that drink. Real money you ask? Real money is when you start thinking not in thousands of rupees but in lakhs of rupees because then you can also start thinking in crores.”

  “How are you going to make this real money, my love?” he asked, handing her the glass again and then refilling his own.

  “It is a secret. No one must know.” She sipped. “But I will tell you. Can you not guess? You who were down in Ranpur for me and making a good impression?” She smacked a kiss on his forehead. One spectacular episode apart the main things he could remember about Ranpur were taking a locked briefcase to the lawyers, then calling every day from his hotel to see if he was wanted – although wanted for what he could not tell because he seldom had been wanted and then only to answer questions about the Smith’s accounts. Eventually he had returned with the same locked briefcase, slightly heavier, none the wiser except in regard to something called double-lotus.

  “I cannot guess,” he said.

  “Truly? Honestly?” She clasped her hands. “Then I will tell you, but not a word to be breathed. Completion date is not until a month from now.”

  “Completion date?”

  “For the contract.” She paused. Her mouth quivered.
“I am buying into the consortium. You know what this means? It means I shall now profit from all the enterprises. Shiraz Hotel Pankot, Shiraz Hotel Ranpur, Shiraz Hotel Mayapore, Mirat Lake Palace Hotel, and all the Go-Go-Inns. Part of these profits of course will be ploughed back into the consortium so that we can expand our enterprises, particularly down in Nansera which is to be developed. Only that is very very confidential, my Franky.”

  “But Lila, all this buying in must be costing you a great deal of money.”

  She raised her hands in mock horror. “Oh, don’t speak of it. Dear God! It makes me quite ill to think what it is costing.”

  Mr Bhoolabhoy sipped his drink. It made him feel rather faint to be married to a woman rich enough to buy her way into consortiums. It also made him wonder whether as her husband he had in some way been illegally deprived of his rights. She had sometimes, too, asked him to sign papers and he had done so without demanding to read them, being a man for a quiet life. Perhaps, without knowing it, he was a member of this consortium too; and, also without knowing it, for some years one of what he occasionally heard Lila and Mr Pandey referring to as nominees. If Lila suddenly dropped dead (his eye on the open half-eaten box of marrons glacés) what kind of mess would he find himself in? Mess, somehow it would be sure to be, not clover. “You’re a loser, Billy-Boy,” Tusker had told him once, “Lila’s a winner.” He had always imagined that if Lila died before he did he might, just, with luck, find himself the proprietor of Smith’s, which she had bought before their marriage and which she’d sworn had cost her every penny she owned in the world plus what she’d had to borrow from the bank at extortionate interest.

  “Lila, my love, my love,” he said, sitting next to her again, “wherever did you get this money?”

  “What money, Franky?”

  “To buy into the consortium.”

  She smiled. To Mr Bhoolabhoy the settee they were on suddenly felt as though it were stuffed with blackmarket rupees. Most of Lila’s business friends looked like people who owned such settees, come to think of it. Perhaps he should have thought of it before. He had thought of it before but the thought had so thoroughly frightened him that he had stopped thinking it ages ago. Government was very hot on catching people dealing in black money. The Prime Minister herself took a personal interest in putting a stop to it. Tusker was always saying that the Prime Minister was the one person in India capable of ending corruption. Mr Bhoolabhoy, although a Christian, was also a patriot. He had now a terrifying vision of Mrs Gandhi walking into the room in that aristocratic way of hers and demanding that he and Lila stand up while she personally investigated the settee to find out what it was stuffed with.