‘Once he left some crabs with me. In the control post at the crossroads. He said he wouldn’t be long. Even though their claws were tied up, I didn’t like them scraping around my feet. I stepped down onto the road to direct the traffic. He laughed at me when he came back.’
Why did Bill leave the crabs? ‘Anything else?’
‘He was a very strong swimmer.’
‘Oh?’
‘One day he saved a woman from the sea. Near the ferry terminal. I wasn’t on duty. Head constable told me.’
‘What, exactly?’
‘That a woman fell from the ferry and Gilbert jumped into the water.’
‘He saved her?’
Dawood nods. ‘But her husband was very angry.’
What?
‘To have his wife touched by another man.’
‘Perhaps the husband pushed her in,’ Indore intervenes, with another gold-toothed chuckle.
‘Where did this happen?’
‘The ferry. Where the big bridge is now.’
He can remember nothing else. But it doesn’t matter. I’m so pleased to hear a final positive testimonial to Bill from a contemporary with no particular vested interests. We chat for a while about the man’s later career and life in retirement before it’s time to go. When we shake hands, Dawood mutters something which makes the DSP shake his head.
‘What did he say?’
‘I told him you were a doctor. He wants to know if you are good with eyes.’
I mime my apologies. On the way out, the thought suddenly occurs to me: at last I’ve encountered a Muslim police officer. Are they, like Dawood, simply relics of the past?
Before returning to the hotel, I ask the ever-patient Keitan, who’s parked discreetly down the road, if we can pop back to the estuary bridge for a moment.
‘As long as it’s not to Bangladesh,’ he grins.
On the way, he chaffs me about my obsessive interest in Raj sites and architecture. I wonder if he read the Macaulay excerpt while waiting.
‘Look, there’s a tree probably planted by the British,’ he teases, ‘certainly that house was built by sahib-log, maybe those pavement stones were walked on by the viceroy.’
We park up halfway across the arc. It’s a beautiful evening; the sun’s set but it continues to illuminate the horizon, while the lamps of the fishing fleet bob like fairy lights. Ratnagiri means ‘mountain of jewels’ in Marathi, but ‘sea of jewels’ feels more appropriate at this moment. The beach where we were stoned is empty even of toileteers, and looks idyllic at this distance. Below, broiling cross-currents are creamily visible. In The Glass Palace, this is the site of a suicide. Discovering that his wife no longer loves him, the first Indian collector of Ratnagiri launches the scull he’s brought back from Cambridge. Racing downriver, he disappears just here, where the fresh water smashes into the salty tide. Neither he nor his craft are recovered.
As with defusing the Mills bomb in Nasik, it must have taken some courage for Bill to plunge into that cauldron to rescue the woman. I wonder whether the pair was pulled back onto the ferry or if Bill dragged her all the way to the old jetty, now clearly visible from this side of the building site, where our assailants armed themselves yesterday. Perhaps on the very beach where we were nearly stoned, her husband remonstrated with him, his half-drowned wife struggling, uncertain as a pupa, to right herself in her sodden saris. I’d like to think it was restitution, an attempt at balancing the books before he quit India. Otherwise, why take the risk when he was about to leave, his whole life in front of him?
But perhaps, after all, it was simply reflex, instilled by long training.
The boy can’t understand it. Snippets of his life speed like a film through his mind, right up to just a few minutes ago, when he was talking with Mrs Ambrose and Jacqueline as they relaxed in sunloungers beside the pool at the Tabora Club.
‘Don’t know how to swim?’ Mrs Ambrose asked incredulously, after her daughter went inside to get another Fanta.
The boy had reddened. It’s impossible to swim in the upcountry rivers and lakes where they’ve been posted up to now. If it isn’t crocodiles, it’s bilharzia, borne by snails which deposit eggs in the urethra. At school it’s said they can only be dislodged by means of a very fine wire brush with copper hairs. But he’d felt ashamed, nonetheless, because everyone his age here – girls, too – runs and dives into the water with such abandon.
He’d give anything to be able to do bombs off the boards like the teenagers, so confident in their supple bodies. The boy can’t bring himself even to go in the shallow end, for fear he’ll be challenged to a race. He pretends to prefer sunbathing and mocking the girls. But he was ecstatic that Jacqueline left before her mother asked the question. She’s that pretty, snake of hair down to her waist, cabled for swimming but brushed out now she’s finished her dip. Lately he’s been getting a sugary, sinking feeling when he slyly watches her, pretending to squint because of the sun.
‘It’s easy,’ Mrs Ambrose had assured him. ‘Just run and take a big jump. Once in, you’ll know what to do. It’s natural.’
More than anything, he’d wanted to impress Jacqueline, make the straw drop from her mouth.
He sees himself now, as if from above, in slow motion, through the fluid pressing into every opening with a transparent stifling silkiness, preparing to make his approach from the far end of the pool. Past joins present almost as soon as he hits the water. How long has he been thrashing like this, lungs burning at first, now glutinous and soggy, as he tries to touch bottom long enough to hurl himself violently up again. Once or twice he’s surfaced long enough for an almighty cough and gasp of air, but mainly it’s more mouthfuls of water. Each time, the world grows more bleary and indistinct. Liquid gravity is winning him.
Then, from nowhere, the Ambrose girl’s suddenly next to him. She pushes him up and he catches another choking breath. But the boy’s so tired now, he just wants to hang on, anything for a rest. He puts both hands round her neck, hoping she’ll swim them both into the sunlight. For an age they struggle, limbs intertwined in an intimacy he could scarcely have dared hope for. He knows she’s shouting something from her water-gagged mouth, but the element’s too thick to hear. Suddenly she’s spent, too. Her head drops back and the efforts to free his grip weaken, her long hair drifting like weed. How beautiful it would be, her hands all over him, if only her brown eyes didn’t goggle so.
When he’s about to surrender to the sweet languid feeling in his limbs, just as the light starts to drain out of the water, there’s an underwater eruption, as if one of the larger lads is doing a bomb. A vast shape throws deeper shadow over them. The boy feels his hands torn from Jacqueline. A moment later, there’s sun on his face and he’s half aware of his chest being scraped over the tiled edge of the pool. Shouting comes from far away, half drowned by the sound of vomiting. Once on his back he feels, rather than hears, his name being called. His face is turned to one side, supported in his father’s hands, while someone pumps brutally on his chest. It continues to pour, the water, retched out of his nose and mouth and eyes, tasting of bile and chlorine and foulness, his sides racked with cramps as he tries to yield more.
As his vision comes into focus again, the boy sees his father’s tennis shoes still bleeding water. For once the voice above him’s thin and uncertain.
‘Thought I’d lost you there, old chap. One minute more.’ He folds his son up to his chest and rocks him.
Although the boy can’t see his father’s grey eyes, he can taste salt on his cheeks, feel the thick arms trembling. As he continues to be rocked, he’s transfixed by the sight of Jacqueline Ambrose. Her swimsuit’s pulled down off her shoulders. There are angry weals on her neck, above the lovely swellings on her upper chest. Her mother cries helplessly as a friend comforts the girl. Jacqueline stares blankly at the boy before sitting up on one elbow and pulling her straps up. He wants to say he hasn’t been looking. But he feels too peaceful to care. He doesn’t mind how long he st
ays like this, buoyed in his father’s arms, sun slowly fluffing up his flattened hair.
‘You stupid woman, you bloody stupid woman,’ the boy’s father suddenly yells after the retreating Mrs Ambrose.
Her daughter, hair once more in its pigtail, glances back tearfully. Club members look on, sympathetic but astonished. After all, the boy’s father’s a byword for gallantry.
CHAPTER 15
Two Farewells
My last morning in India, I return to Rajeev’s flat to find him in trainers, fleece tracksuit pants and striped hoody, Elvis once more warbling from the corner of his day room. He looks pumped-up.
‘Aren’t you cold?’ he asks, staring at my bare arms. ‘People are freezing to death up in Lucknow. They say it’s minus five in London.’
My heart sinks. ‘Well, I’m going to make the most of it. Been running?’
‘I like to do a fast walk at five-thirty in the morning,’ he explains. ‘Clears the head and gives me time to think. And the air’s OK to breathe at that time.’ He offers tea. ‘Did you bring that Shinde book?’ he asks, when it comes.
I get The Parallel Government out of my bag and pass it over. He leafs through the opening pages.
‘I thought so. I asked around about this fellow after you left. You see, this is a kind of semi-official publication. The foreword was written by Y.B. Chavan himself and, look here,’ his finger stabs the page, ‘Shinde acknowledges receiving “a sumptuous publication grant” from the chief minister’s office.’
I recall Avanish Patil’s mournful comments at Kolhapur University about how patronage is essential these days in order to get local history published in India.
‘Listen, my friend.’ Rajeev reads from the foreword: ‘Chavan claims that “Police excesses on men, women and children are … narrated factually.” Of course he’d say that, given he was one of the leaders of the Patri Sarkar. I don’t suppose Shinde felt able to question some of the behaviour of the movement in the way you told me Nayakwadi was.’
I demur. True, Shinde perhaps ought to have gone to Chafal to check the account given by the Congress worker on which he relied so heavily. Equally, he interviewed only those engaged on the nationalist side: no equivalent police testimony’s adduced, other than excerpts from the elusive confidential weekly reports. But there’s no reason to doubt that he used his sources in good faith. Besides, there’s Modak’s evidence, too, even if aspects of it now seem questionable. Rajeev’s surprised I wish to defend him.
‘Well,’ he shrugs, ‘I suppose everyone tells the stories they need to. None of us can really be objective.’
He gets up and goes to his desk. To my astonishment, it’s littered with what look like 1950s comics and trash-mags. Except for one blue folder.
‘This is what I dug up while you were away.’
Extraordinary. Original typewritten orders relating to Bill’s later career. The first’s from N.A.P. Smith, the inspector-general of police and is dated 16 January 1944: ‘Mr Moore-Gilbert, who is officiating as DSP, Nasik, until Mr Price’s return on 23-1-1944, should thereafter be appointed as an additional ASP in the Belgaum district. The purposes of this appointment are in a sense confidential and have been outlined in a separate letter addressed to the Adviser. But it can be broadly stated that it is intended through Mr Moore-Gilbert to effect an improvement in the training of the armed police operating against the Radderhati Berad and other gangs in the Belgaum area.’
‘What’s the Radderhati Berad?’
Rajeev shrugs. ‘Probably some outfit like the Patri Sarkar.’
So Bill was never supposed to go to Satara? I wonder what place he’d have in history had his original secondment proceeded as planned. Perhaps all controversy would have been avoided. Then again, had he gone to Belgaum, Bhosle might never have emailed me and I’d have had no reason to come to India. There’d have been no need to track down Modak, I’d never have been passed onto Dhun Nanavatty, visited Chafal, or been put in touch with the old nationalist leaders and constables. I wouldn’t have met Briha, Keitan or Rajeev. I’d know no more about my father than I did before I came here. I’d have learned a lot less about myself, too, my investments in my childhood memories, my adult values.
That directive’s immediately countermanded by another, stamped ‘Home Department’ and dated two days later. It’s also signed by Smith: ‘I suggest that Mr Moore-Gilbert should be appointed as Additional Asst. Supdt. of Police, of the Satara District and not in the Belgaum District. This recommendation is made as the result of discussion I have had today with the District Magistrate, Satara, and the D.I.G.P. [Deputy Inspector-General of Police], C.I.D. Conditions in the Satara District have deteriorated sensibly in the last three or four weeks and I consider, therefore, that Mr Moore-Gilbert should go first to Satara and be diverted later if necessary to Belgaum.’
There are further orders, from the ‘Political and Services Department’. The first confirms Bill’s appointment as ‘officer on special duty’ in Ahmedabad after the period of long leave ‘ex-India’ he took in 1946. There’s no clue here as to where he went, but I’m beginning to suspect he used it to make his first visit to Tanganyika, to visit my grandparents and see if he could make a life there. I can’t imagine he’d have taken my mother and the young son from her first marriage somewhere so far away, just on spec.
A couple of documents signed by Bill himself relate to his time in Ahmedabad. One requests funds for a temporary shorthand typist to assist him in the preparation of a Home Guards Training Manual. A subsequent report states that he’s succeeded in engaging someone. But Bill adds a postscript: ‘In this connection, please communicate directly with the D.S. [District Superintendent] Police, Ahmedabad as I have relinquished charge as S.P. [Superintendent of Police] Special duty and am proceeding to Ratnagiri.’ There’s one final order, dated July 1947: ‘Mr SM. Moore-Gilbert, I.P., Dist. Supt. Police, Ratnagiri, is granted leave ex-India on average pay for eight months followed by leave on half average pay for one year, three months and twenty-eight days from 15 August, 1947, preparatory to retirement.’
Portrait of Bill, months before he died
Did Bill only make up his mind at the last moment to leave, the very day of Indian Independence? Whatever, it seems a very generous redundancy package, ample to get married and buy a stake in my grandparents’ coffee farm.
‘Could I get a photocopy of these documents?’ The ones with Bill’s signature would be precious.
Rajeev looks uneasy. ‘They’re not supposed to have been taken from the archives. A friend did it for me.’
How on earth did he arrange that? Evidently I’m not hiding my disappointment well.
‘Alright then, but we’ll have to do it in my special place,’ Rajeev says. ‘It’s on the way.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘I want to try one last place to see if we can find those confidential weekly reports. Bring Shinde.’
‘Has Poel come up with anything?’
My host shakes his head apologetically as he gets up. ‘I’ll explain later.’
I gather my things.
‘Before we go, have a look at these.’
He leads me to the desk. The comics are indeed vintage, mainly American ones with heroes like John Steel, Robot Archie and Rick Random, the lurid colours now respectably dulled by age.
‘I used to buy them as a kid. They were smuggled into India. Morally corrupting and all that. Glad I looked after them. Worth a lot of money now. I might need to cash them in for my retirement.’
Elvis, comics. What other surprises does Rajeev have up his sleeve in our last hours together?
‘When do you retire?’
Rajeev laughs ruefully. ‘Four months, three weeks and a day.’
We head East from Rajeev’s flat. I’m going to badly miss this bustle and spectacle, the warm milling crowds. India, or Maharashtra at least, has got right under my skin. I can’t believe it took me so long to get here. What must Bill have felt on his last day in Bo
mbay Province, after nearly nine years of service? Perhaps, like me, he was bereft, even if the adventure of Africa was beckoning. How did he spend his final hours? With friends? Arm-in-arm with one of the ‘girl-friends’ in Aunt Pat’s photo album? Packing and last-minute shopping for the curios which found their way into my childhood home in Tanganyika? Perhaps he strolled in civvies, before enjoying a final curry with Bombay Duck, trying – like me – to make sense of his time here. The closeness I felt to Bill during my first tentative explorations of Mumbai surges up again and I miss him piercingly.
In the cramped photocopy shop tucked away up an alley, the proprietor behaves as if he’s receiving a distinguished visitor. Rajeev disappears after him into a back room, returning a few minutes later with two manila envelopes.
‘Make sure you don’t leave it anywhere,’ he mutters, handing me mine.
I put it carefully away in my knapsack and we set off again, in the direction of the old Victoria railway terminus and Crawford Market. After fifteen minutes, however, we veer south-east. There are signs for Cama Hospital and we turn up a nondescript lane which skirts its perimeter.
‘Want to show you something,’ Rajeev says.
We stop at a junction, where the roads are barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. It’s a shabby and unremarkable site, a temporary-looking tea stall set up next to a back entrance to the hospital.
‘This is where they killed poor Kamte, whose grandfather was Moore-Gilbert’s colleague. Those bloody bearded bandits. They just want to go backwards. Serves them right what’s going on in Gaza.’
He’s visibly upset, so I don’t ask if he’s seen the latest television pictures.
‘They hid behind that gate after they attacked the hospital. When the police vehicle stopped at this junction, they shot Kamte and his colleagues in cold blood. One constable survived by playing dead. They dragged the bodies out and drove off on their rampage downtown.’
The Setting Sun Page 28