A Division of the Spoils

by Paul Scott

  Purvis’s servant, he supposed. The man salaamed, stood back as Perron reached the next landing, and indicated the open door of the flat above Rajendra Singh’s. As he entered he heard a groan. The servant closed the door and went quickly down a corridor to a curtained doorway. The groan was repeated. A tap was turned on. Perron put his pack down, went in the opposite direction to the one the servant had taken and entered a dining-area. This was separated from a living-room by a wide uncurtained arch. The living-room was elegantly furnished, filled with aqueous light of sunshine filtered through a set of louvred shutters. On a wall behind a long settee hung a series of what looked like paintings from the Moghul period, which upon close inspection Perron identified as genuine. He was still admiring them when the servant came in and invited him to go along to Captain Purvis’s room.

  This room, although large, was barrack-like by comparison. Apart from an almirah and a wooden table littered with books, papers and some discarded shirts, there was nothing else in it except a rush-seated chair and the camp-bed on which Purvis was lying, one hand over his eyes, the other hanging free, almost touching the floor. But an open door afforded a glimpse of a well-appointed green-tiled bathroom.

  Purvis said, ‘I’m not going to be able to make it, sergeant. You’ll have to go by yourself or forget the whole thing. I wish to God I’d kept my mouth shut. It’s all an utter waste of time. Every bloody civilian in Bombay knows where Zipper’s going and why it’s going and how it’s going. We’re the exceptions. We know where. But they know where better. They can even name the damned beaches. It’ll be a shambles, a complete and unholy utter bloody cocked-up shambles.’

  Suddenly Purvis uncovered his eyes and stared wildly at Perron.

  ‘You are Field Security?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Beamish isn’t. What the hell is he?’

  ‘He has certain responsibilities for liaison between intelligence and operations.’

  ‘But he’s not your officer?’

  ‘No, sir. My officer is in Poona at the moment.’

  Purvis shut his eyes.

  ‘Poona,’ he said, almost under his breath. ‘It scarcely seems possible.’

  ‘Poona, sir? Or that my officer is there?’

  But Purvis didn’t say. Outside the barred but open window there was a sudden piercing contest of crows and then a human voice below in the courtyard raised in what to an untutored ear must sound like a protracted cry of pain but which Perron knew was only the call of an itinerant tradesman. Purvis groaned and turned on his side, the side away from the window. At that moment the sun went in and the sluice-gates of the wet monsoon re-opened. Purvis’s lips began to move but Perron could hear nothing above the noise of the rainstorm.

  The bearer parted the curtains and came in with a tray of tea for two. Perron assisted by clearing a space on the table and when the bearer had gone he looked at Purvis intending to say, ‘Shall I be mother, sir?’ but the officer’s eyes were open, fixed and unreceptive – in fact, glazed. For a moment Perron thought he was dead, extinguished by the single clap of thunder that had heralded the arrival of the tea.

  *

  Refreshed, bathed and now disguised as a sergeant in education, Perron walked – shoe instead of boot-shod – along the tiled passage to the living-room where he found Purvis standing on a balcony that had been revealed by the folding back of shutters and windows. It was now a beautiful evening with a sky the colour of pale turquoise. The coconut palms framed a view of the Law Courts and clock tower on the other side of the maidan.

  ‘I appreciated the bath, sir. I’m afraid I used some of your Cuticura talcum.’

  Purvis had a glass in the hand that rested on the balustrade.

  ‘Help yourself to a drink, sergeant. You’ll find everything on the tray.’

  There was, if not everything, a generous selection: Gin, whisky, rum, several bottles of Murree beer and various squashes and cordials. The spirits were country-distilled so Perron – not caring much for rum of any kind – chose the gin which he found more palatable than Indian versions of Scotch. He added lemon-squash and – luxury for him – a cube of ice from a zinc-lined container.

  ‘Cheers, sir.’

  ‘I’m an economist,’ Purvis said, irrelevantly to everything except his private train of thought. ‘It’s enough to send you round the bloody bend.’

  He came in from the balcony, refilled his glass with rum and lime and sat on the long settee under the priceless paintings. After drinking a stout measure he shuddered, closed his eyes and put his head back.

  ‘Can you guess how long I’ve been ill, sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Since I got off the boat. And that’s three months, two weeks and four days ago.’

  ‘Bad luck, sir.’

  Purvis raised his eyelids a fraction and looked at him. Perron was standing with his feet apart, one hand behind his back, the other at waist level holding the tumbler steady.

  ‘How long have you been in this bloody country?’

  ‘Since ’forty-three, sir.’

  ‘And in the army?’

  ‘Since ’forty-one, sir.’

  ‘Before that?’

  ‘Cambridge, sir.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I rowed a bit. And read history.’

  ‘What was your school?’

  ‘Chillingborough, sir.’

  ‘How the hell have you avoided getting a commission?’

  ‘By always saying no, sir.’

  Purvis shut his eyes again. His face began to contort.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but that is extremely funny.’ He did not say why but took another long drink, set the glass on a low table in front of the settee then leant back with his hands clasped behind his head.

  ‘The party,’ he said, changing the subject and ploughing straight into the new one, ‘is in the apartment of an Indian lady living on the Marine Drive. I’ll write her a note, so you’ll have the address on the envelope. There should be no difficulty about your going in my place. I was there the other night and she doesn’t seem to care how many people turn up or whether she knows them or not. You’ll see what I mean when you get there. Judging from the other day there’ll be a lot of non-commissioned men so you won’t feel out of place. The fact is, it seems to be the kind of flat where officers and men fraternize, not to mention white, black and in-between. Sexually I’d say some of the company was on the ambivalent side.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Will that worry you?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘You may even be taken for a special sort of friend of mine.’

  ‘I think I shall be able to cope in the event of a misunderstanding arising, sir.’

  ‘Not that I care a fig about my own reputation. I shan’t go there again. In any case you’ll find lots of girls, if you can sort out the ones who’re only interested in men.’

  Perron finished his drink but retained his glass.

  ‘Apart from unambivalent girls, sir, what precisely should I look out for? Any special person or group of people?’

  ‘So far as I’m concerned, sergeant, you can just go there and get stoned or laid, as our American allies so picturesquely put it. I told you. The whole thing’s an utter waste of time. You’re not going to arrest anybody. At least, not for spying.’

  ‘Major Beamish seemed to think otherwise about it being a waste of time, sir.’

  ‘Think? Think? He’s a professional soldier. They’re all alike and worse out here than back home. Totally automatic. Touch a button by accident and they go into action. I’ll tell you, Perron –’

  Perron was surprised to find that his name had registered.

  ‘– how this bloody farce you’re up to the neck in started.’

  Three days ago Purvis had encountered, in circumstances not clear, an old friend – obviously a breezy, hectic sort of man – who had whisked him up from whatever he’d been doing, dined him at the T
aj and taken him off to the apartment in Marine Drive which Purvis’s friend had described as ‘always good for a lark’; as indeed it had proved, in so far as an uninterrupted flow of drink, food and merrymaking was concerned. Although Purvis did not say so, Perron understood that the larkiness had been infectious enough to make Purvis forget his chronic internal disorder and become expansive with his hostess to whom in a weak but hospitable moment he had promised one of two remaining bottles of whisky he’d managed to get hold of in England and bring out to India for personal consolation. She had declined but he’d insisted and then been invited to come to another party with or without the bottle on the evening of August 5.

  ‘I could have forgotten the whole damned thing,’ Purvis said, ‘if I hadn’t stupidly made a casual remark next day to the bloody fool officer I work with about the amount of careless talk going on in Bombay. He said – where for instance? And instead of shutting up I said “Well, take this odd party I was at last night where the Indian civilians were actually telling us that the Zipper invasion fleet wouldn’t sail for Malaya until the end of August because of the tides on the beaches around Port Swettenham,” and the next thing I knew the bloody man had reported it and I was hauled in front of that Brigadier Whatsit and congratulated on keeping my ears open. When he heard I’d been invited to the same flat tonight he was like a cat with two tails and before I knew where I was I was under strict security routine and told to say nothing more until I had instructions, and that was this morning when I was ordered to report to this Beamish fellow of yours. When Beamish told me I had to go to the party with a Field Security chap in disguise I thought he was joking. I tried to tell him you can hear that kind of talk anywhere in Bombay but he wouldn’t listen.’

  Perron put his empty glass on the drinks table.

  ‘Are we landing on beaches near Port Swettenham, sir?’

  ‘How the hell do I know? I’ve got no personal interest in Zipper. I’m not going, thank God. Are you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Purvis noticed Perron’s drink was finished. He said, ‘Help yourself, sergeant.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. But I think a clear head might be advisable this evening.’

  ‘Advisable? In this country?’

  Purvis became restless and Perron momentarily allowed himself to stop thinking of him as an officer with an officer’s responsibilities for getting the war over and done with and think of him as a man, one whom in other circumstances he might even like.

  ‘Well if you’re on Zipper,’ Purvis said, ‘I suppose you have to take all this incredible lack of security seriously. I don’t suppose you want to be shot out of the water by the Japanese before you’ve even set foot in the damned country, especially at this stage in the war.’

  ‘I should prefer not to be, sir.’

  ‘Does it bore you to call people sir?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Purvis got up. He refilled his glass.

  ‘What is your actual job, sir, if I may ask?’

  ‘You may well ask. I’ve given up asking. I’ve even given up asking myself. Three times in my life the phone’s rung and the fellow on the other end has said, “Can you get down to see me, Purvis? I’ve got something special for you.” And each time it’s ended like this, with me wondering not what’s special about it but what it is. The first time was ’thirty-nine. I’d done a few papers that were well thought of. I’d got a good lectureship. And then the war started and the phone rang. “Purvis,” this fellow said, “if you can get here in twenty minutes I’ve got something that will interest you.” I was there with three minutes to spare and an hour to wait. And that led to a folding chair behind a deal-table in an attic without heating and a telephone that never rang. I thought I was supposed to contribute some original thinking to the problems of distribution of goods and services as between high and low priority demand sectors, or in layman’s terms, the problems of trying to stop the army wasting what could be saved and what the civil population could bloody well make use of. I even drafted a paper and this chap rang up cock-a-hoop and said it was just what he wanted but if that was so I must have been under a misapprehension about what he wanted it for. I was in that attic for eighteen months. Then the phone rang again. Same chap, “Purvis,” he said, “I’ve got something I think will get you out of that dead-end you’re in.” I arrived half-an-hour late, deliberately, which put him in a filthy temper because he’d promised to ring this colonel chap that very morning and tell him if I was interested. He sent me off to one of those anonymous areas somewhere near Stan-more which always strike me as vaguely sinister. When I saw the colonel he struck me as sinister too. He said, “We’ve read your paper” but hedged when I said I’d done several and which did he mean.

  ‘The trouble is, Perron, I used to be the sort of man who couldn’t bear to embarrass another by making it plain I saw through him and knew he was talking cock. So I let it go and just concentrated on trying to find out what I was supposed to do. I never did from him. But then they sent for me from the War House. This time it was a mere major. Awfully pleasant chap. He’d actually read my paper on high and low priority demand sectors. I don’t say he’d understood it. But he’d read it. And he called me Mr Purvis. He was even articulate about the job. Wrong. But articulate. He made me feel the inspiration for the special joint services advisory staff that he said was being got together to liaise with the various ministries and industry had been my paper and that I’d be one of its kingpins. “One thing,” he said, “we’d want you in uniform. An immediate commission, naturally.” ’

  Purvis’s complexion suddenly went grey, either as a result of acute recollection or of acute physical discomfort. He downed the rest of his rum and poured another.

  ‘I said I couldn’t see what use a commission was. I’d signed the official secrets thing when I went to the attic. Well, as I said, he was an awfully pleasant chap. We didn’t argue, and I went back to the attic and waited. I waited three weeks. When the summons came it wasn’t to the War House but to the office of my benefactor. He congratulated me on making such a good impression on the people he’d recommended me to. He described my new job as the opportunity I’d been waiting for to exercise my talents as an economist for the country’s benefit, an opportunity not to be thrown away on the totally irrelevant issue of what style of dress I exercised them in. I said, “You’re right. Irrelevant is the word. So why the fuss? The army isn’t me. Neither is officer status.” ’

  Purvis sat down; he’d got up to get more lime-juice. He sat crouched, elbows on knees, head lowered and eyes hidden by his free hand. His shoulders began to shake.

  ‘I’m sorry, sergeant, but it’s so bloody funny. What you said about always saying no to a commission brought it all back.’

  He straightened up.

  ‘I’ll tell you what this fellow said. “Purvis,” he said, “in this country only a man born and bred in the officer-class can decline a commission without running the risk of having his integrity and future usefulness doubted.” ’

  ‘Was that some kind of threat, sir?’

  ‘Threat? It was a bloody ultimatum. Get into uniform or get out of the department. Not just out of the department but out of line for anything half-decent going after the war. Not to mention the immediate danger of ceasing a reserved occupation, getting called up and wasting the rest of the war as a highly inefficient and underemployed squaddie.’

  ‘And subsequently, sir? Were your experiences as an officer on the advisory staff as unsatisfactory as those in the attic?’

  ‘Oh no. No, I couldn’t say that. Not unsatisfactory. Nor satisfactory. You see, Perron, there never was an advisory staff. I mean there was never that one. Plenty of others. It took me several weeks to realize that ours didn’t actually exist. I used to go to these meetings. At first I thought I’d missed something important about its inauguration, because of the Gas course.’

  ‘Gas course?’

  ‘The day I reported to the
War House disguised as an acting captain and war substantive lieutenant, the nice major said, “Oh, Purvis” – he’d dropped the mister, you see. “Purvis,” he said, “d’you mind awfully, there’s this boring gas thing come up, but I suppose you might just as well learn how to use a WD mask since you’ve now got to carry one.” So I went down to Salisbury Plain.’

  ‘An interesting part of the country, sir.’

  Purvis looked at him, as though testing for sincerity.

  ‘I didn’t find it so. I expect you had some rudimentary military training at that public school of yours. Isn’t it one of those places with a long record of turning out the future soldiers and administrators of Empire?’

  ‘I wasn’t in OTC, sir. It wasn’t compulsory.’

  ‘Well I had no military training whatsoever. My progress to my current distinction was from elementary via secondary to grammar school and to the earnest heights of the London School of Economics. Walking about with three pips up and no faintest notion of how to salute let alone whom to salute can be a highly embarrassing experience. I was glad when I got back to the War House and they sent me to this quaint little establishment off the Marylebone High Street where a retired Guards sergeant-major taught a batch of poor fellows like me how to dissemble sufficiently to avoid being put under close arrest as nuns parachuted in from Stuttgart. I almost wished, Perron, yes almost wished I’d scrubbed the whole career thing, been called up and gone into intellectual hibernation for the duration. There was something soothing about Sergeant-Major Bracegirdle. He was so pleased with us when we got anything right. In a way nothing is more restful than to stand in the ranks and do what the man says. The whole thing is definitely erotic, a sort of communal wet-dream without the discomfort but with that same sublimated asexual quality of purely involuntary obedience to a dominant force.’