by Paul Scott
In telling the story of Pinky, in trying to give an impression of my idea of what happened, I have filled the story out with some imaginative detail and also placed events in the order in which they occurred – not in the order in which they emerged during my talk with Potter. For instance, when Potter referred early on to Merrick’s first visit to Richardson I said at once, ‘What did he go to see Richardson about?’ Potter said Pinky assumed he went to see him about the patient whose file Richardson asked for. I said, ‘What patient?’ Potter said, ‘Pinky said it was a woman, he’d had the file out at one time but put it back when he found out it was not about a man.’ I said, ‘Do you know what woman?’ Potter said the answer was a woman called Bingham, but neither Pinky, Potter nor Sophie had ever heard of her.
I then asked him to continue with the story, but from there on I was on the alert because there was unlikely to be more than one Bingham in Pankot and surely Bingham was the name of the officer Merrick had tried to rescue from the blazing jeep, the officer Sarah Layton’s sister married, who hadn’t been well enough to go to Bombay to meet her father and whom Sarah had described as having had a bad time: obviously, in view of Richardson’s file on her, not just a bad time physically but psychologically. And there was Merrick visiting Richardson to talk about her and becoming determined to have a look at her private file. Why?
It was rather late when I got to the Summer Residence guest house. This was a two-storeyed brick and timber building; appearing from the outside a cross between a shooting-lodge and the kind of villa you see half-hidden by fir trees and rhododendrons in the hills around Caterham. Inside, it was straightforward Anglo-Indian hill station stuff and smelt of damp and of aromatic wood. Rowan sat me down on a verandah whose floorboards sounded hollow underfoot so that it was rather like moving around in a sports pavilion or boat-house, except that the view was across an acre or so of rising ground to the Summer Residence (a dark hulk which in daylight proved to have been the inspiration for the guest house, architecturally speaking). On this verandah there were a lot of palms in brass pots and a set of white lacquered cane lounging chairs well upholstered by heavy cushions covered in durable royal blue cloth; and there was a smell of incense which presently I tracked down to a couple of joss-sticks smouldering away on a carved side-table. It struck me that if he went on like this and didn’t get married soon Rowan might end up wearing Indian pyjamas indoors and eating pan prepared by himself from ingredients kept in little silver boxes, and discussing the Bhagavad Gita with a gentle down-at-heel professor from some nearby Hindu college; but only during his leisure hours. And even then, in pyjamas, preparing pan and discussing the significance, say, of Krishna’s remark to Arjuna that ‘Learned men do not grieve for the living’ no one would ever mistake him for anything other than an Englishman – one, moreover, of the kind it took a long time to get to know sufficiently well to be sure whether the amiable expression on his face was there for the benefit of the present company or for his own in dealing, as he constantly had to, with so many pressing and troublesome affairs.
For instance, having invited me there, having brushed aside my apology for lateness and sat me down, told the highly distinguished looking bearer to bring a whisky-soda for me and a gin-fizz for himself, he looked at me as if he wondered where I’d sprung from and what advantage I might expect to wrest out of this sudden and unexpected intimacy. He couldn’t help it. It was an effect India had on a man whose manner was already naturally remote and uncommitted.
I said, ‘Well, Nigel, tell me all about Merrick and Hari Kumar.’
His expression didn’t alter. He said. ‘Why?’
‘I thought it would be a good way to bring the subject up. The subject of Merrick.’
‘Why do you want to do that?’
‘I thought you did. If we start right away wouldn’t it make it easier for you to ask about Merrick and Mr Mohammed Ali Kasim’s INA son?’
The bearer came with the drinks. Mine had far too much soda and ice in it. The coldness burnt my lips.
When the bearer had gone he said, ‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Then I’d better start again. By the way, if anyone comes to put me under arrest would you be prepared to say that we spent the whole day together?’
Fractionally his eyebrows went up. ‘I think that would depend on what they came to arrest you for.’
‘Common assault?’
‘On whom?’
‘The Red Shadow.’
‘Merrick’s servant? Didn’t he go back with him?’
‘No. I just caught him pinching ten chips from my jacket.’
‘If assault followed attempted theft I imagine you’re safe enough.’
‘In ordinary circumstances.’
‘Were these not?’
‘Are they ever where Merrick or one of his creatures is concerned? Who is Mrs Bingham?’
He picked up his gin fizz. ‘Sarah Layton’s widowed sister. Why?’ He sipped.
‘Tell me about Merrick and Hari Kumar first.’
‘I’d rather you told me what you meant about Merrick and Mohammed Ali Kasim’s INA son. Unless that would take you longer than we’ve got. We’re dining out, if that’s all right.’
‘Should I change?’
‘What you’re in will do very well. If you could add a jacket. What gave you the idea I’d be interested in talking about Sayed Kasim?’
‘Merrick told me to pretend not to know anything if you asked. But, as I said to him, that won’t be difficult because I don’t.’
‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday, just before we parted.’
‘I saw him the night before. We discussed the case of Sayed Kasim – or rather a situation arising out of it – as fully as was necessary I’d have thought. So I really don’t know what he means.’
‘Weren’t you pumping him?’
‘Not at all. I asked a question and he answered it. Quite satisfactorily. It’s all quite simple, Guy, but rather confidential. The thing is that since he was let out of prison MAK has consistently refused to see the son who fought with the INA and was taken prisoner last year. Government was prepared to let him but he said no. At least, he never took the offer up. All I wanted to know from Merrick, now that there’s this department dealing with these cases, was whether he thought they’d co-operate about arranging a meeting if MAK suddenly changes his mind.’
‘Has he?’
‘Perhaps. But I didn’t see Kasim until last night. When I spoke to Merrick the night before, the question was still rather hypothetical.’
‘What did Merrick say?’
‘That he didn’t think his department would be keen now and might put up objections, but he was quite clear that Government might override them and could persuade the C-in-C. it would be a good thing. He accepted that because his department doesn’t initiate policy.’
‘Well that’s it, then. That settles it. Merrick’s as mad as a hatter.’
Rowan watched me a while. He said, ‘I hope not,’ and drank more gin-fizz.
‘What advantage does Government see in arranging a meeting between father and son? I take it it is a question of advantage. I met the other son, incidentally, at the Maharanee’s.’
‘So Sarah told me. I’m not sure there is much advantage now. But then I’m not personally in a position to judge. You know Kasim headed the pre-war Congress ministry in this province?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s in rather an unenviable position just now. Confidentially, Malcolm would like to see him back one day as chief minister, possibly because the alternatives to MAK are rather bleak. So anything one can do to help him solve his problems and clarify his position is done with that end in view. Does that surprise you? That a provincial Governor should have a soft spot for an Indian politician?’
‘Why should it?’
‘I thought perhaps it might. The raj is obviously not your favourite animal.’ He looked at his watch and at my almost empty glass then glanced over his s
houlder and summoned the bearer. ‘Have the other half before we go.’
‘May I have less soda and no ice this time?’
Rowan passed the instruction on but I sensed his disapproval.
‘Is Mrs Bingham fully recovered?’ I asked.
‘Recovered?’
‘Miss Layton told me her sister had had a bad time. What was wrong?’
‘I think some kind of breakdown. She was pregnant when her husband was killed. Then she had the unpleasant experience of being alone in the house when Colonel Layton’s stepmother died there. The baby was born prematurely. But it’s quite some time ago. She seems all right now.’ He added after a moment, ‘You’ll see for yourself. That’s where we’re dining.’
‘At Mrs Bingham’s?’
‘At the Laytons. They all live together. Mrs Layton rang earlier and asked me to go round. I said you were now staying with me and she said she’d be delighted if you’d come along too. I didn’t think you’d mind so I said yes for both of us.’
The other half arrived. Nigel had ordered nothing for himself. He still had some gin-fizz left. There was no ice in my whisky but the soda was over generous. I thought perhaps this was just as well after all, if we were dining at the Laytons’. Rowan said, ‘Merrick told you then?’
‘Told me what?’
‘About Mrs Bingham.’
‘He told me he was best man when she married the officer he tried to save.’
‘Nothing else.’
‘No.’
‘Then what made you ask about her?’
‘It’s too long a story.’
‘Oh.’ He sipped gin-fizz. ‘If she asks you tonight how you like working with Colonel Merrick you’d better tell her a lie and say you find it extraordinarily interesting.’
‘Must I? My inclination would be to say I couldn’t stop working for him soon enough.’
‘I know. But she’s going to marry him. It was announced at dinner the other evening.’
He studied me, as if for a particular reaction, then looked at his watch and got up. ‘I’ve got a call to make. I’ll be about five minutes, then we ought to go.’
I remained on the verandah, drinking my soda and whisky and considering the significance – the now clear and peculiarly distasteful significance of Merrick and Mrs Bingham’s file. I thought: Well. It’s none of my business. A few minutes later Nigel came back. ‘I’m ready when you are,’ he said.
I told him I was begging off because I didn’t feel up to it.
‘Aren’t you well?’
‘I don’t think I would be if I had to spend the rest of the evening dissembling.’
He said, ‘You wouldn’t be the only one.’
‘No. Miss Layton doesn’t like him either, does she? But I suppose she’ll have to learn to now. I won’t. I’d rather not pretend otherwise to her poor sister.’
Rowan had propped himself against the balustrade, arms folded, ankles crossed. He said, ‘When I said you wouldn’t be the only one dissembling I really meant myself.’
‘I thought you’d only just met him.’
‘I’ve known about him, quite a while. But you guessed that, surely. Otherwise why ask me to tell you about him and Hari Kumar?’
‘Is it what you’ve known about him or what you’ve just seen of him that puts you off?’
‘Known was wrong. I’m sorry. Heard. One must be fair.’
‘My Uncle George once said that the only reward in life for being fair is an obscure death.’
‘He might well be right. Is he the balloonist?’
‘No, that was Uncle Charles. Uncle George spends his life reading balance sheets and share prospectuses. We rely on him absolutely because he’s the only member of the family who can count.’
‘I never know when to take you seriously. I never did. How much time did you actually spend rowing on those Saturdays you got off?’
‘Very little. The thing was to go about a mile up river to a place where a fellow-member of the club had found what he called a lot of spare local talent. We called it Knocker’s Reach.’
‘You mean that unwittingly I put you in the way of what Bagshaw called the temptations of the town?’
‘Yes.’
Unexpectedly, Rowan smiled. ‘Colonel Layton mentioned Bagshaw the other evening. He remembers him as a very junior maths master. I think it does him good to talk about things like that. Won’t you change your mind?’
‘An old boys’ after-dinner session?’
‘Would that bore you?’
‘It would add no charm to the evening.’
‘It would from his point of view, I think.’
‘Does he find much charm in the prospect of having Colonel Merrick for a son-in-law?’
‘Presumably he’s not tried to stop it. The announcement was made in a friendly enough atmosphere.’
‘What about Mrs Layton?’
‘I expect her main concern is with Susan’s welfare.’ Rowan hesitated. ‘The thing is, Merrick’s extraordinarily good with the child.’
‘How old a child?’
‘Just over a year.’
‘Boy or girl?’
‘Boy.’
‘In what way is he extraordinarily good with him?’
‘He inspires the boy’s confidence. I’ve seen it for myself. Watched them playing together with a box of bricks. They were both totally absorbed. Creatively absorbed. He has the knack of making a game seem important. Incidentally the child’s not the least afraid of the artificial hand, or of the burn scars. I’m not much good with children so that the fact that I got no change at all out of young Edward is no guide, but Sarah says Merrick’s the only man, more or less the only person of either sex who does. If Susan’s main reason for marrying him is to give the child a father she’d have to look a long way before she found anyone more capable.’
‘Do you think that is her main reason?’
‘Wouldn’t you agree it’s a perfectly sound one?’
‘So far as it goes. But I should say the important thing for a child is a sense of security. What’s the point of having Merrick as an effective father-figure if the mother is unhappy?’
‘Unhappy? One can’t prejudge that.’
‘You accept the possibility?’
‘Susan’s not a happy person by nature. But I feel quite incompetent even to hazard a guess about how a marriage like this will work out emotionally.’
‘Or physically?’
He ignored this. He said, ‘My worry really is about what might happen to affect Merrick’s career adversely and make life difficult for her. When he was involved in the Mayapore rape case in nineteen-forty-two he went on the Indians’ list of officials who were thought to have exceeded their authority in putting down the Quit India riots. If there’s still such a list and I’m sure there is it would be remarkable if he’s not still on it.’
‘Were repressive measures taken?’
‘The mood of the country was highly volatile.’
‘In other words some officials acted beyond the limit allowed by law.’
‘Well, yes. I think one has to admit it.’
‘I can’t think why you’re bothered. They’ll be well protected. They always have been.’
‘But things have changed a bit, haven’t they? The people now in Westminster know as little as their predecessors did about India, but I imagine they’ll be more disposed to believe the very worst about the way India’s been governed. I shouldn’t think it will need more than a couple of ministers, men like Cripps, to come out here and hobnob with the Mahatma and the disciples of Annie Besant for the new Secretary of State to be rushed into setting up a commission of inquiry. The signs are that the Congress High Command may press for it.’
‘Anything wrong in appointing a commission?’
‘I think a very great deal. It might look like a genuine British attempt to see justice done impartially but the motive would be entirely political, a bit of window dressing in Westminster and damn the consequence
s in Delhi. And from the point of view of the morale of a frankly already overstretched Indian administration an inquiry of that sort would be pretty well disastrous. If there were cases of unduly repressive measures there were an infinitely greater number of cases of intense and by no means invariably nonviolent provocation. You have to put both the provocation and the methods used to meet it in the context of the atmosphere prevailing at the time, and that was a pretty tricky one. The Japanese were on the Chindwin, Singapore had gone and Burma had gone. Most of Europe had gone and North Africa was a mess. The plain fact is that strategically and I’m sure morally, India had to be hung on to. And I honestly don’t see that any Indian leader who incited people to rebel against the raj and obstruct or sabotage its war effort has any right whatsoever to complain if quite a few of them got harshly treated. What else I see is that both sides would be wise to forget both the provocation and the reaction. Settling old scores is a fairly useless exercise at any time. When there’s something else at stake as serious as trying to reach a sane and sensible agreement about the country’s future government and constitution then it’s worse than useless. It’s damned stupid.’
‘I owe you an apology.’
‘Oh?’
‘For thinking of you the other night as indifferent – how did I put it? – indifferent to affairs over which we adopt attitudes of concern and responsibility? So. My apology.’
‘I don’t actually feel owed an apology. But if you want to make one, the car’s waiting at the front. We’d be no more than a minute or two late even if you want to wash your hands and comb your hair. But in any case, I must go.’