A Division of the Spoils

by Paul Scott

  My mother smiled. She said that in the circumstances she imagined his failure to call at Flagstaff House might be overlooked.

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Things have changed.’ He caught my eye. ‘Not sure I approve.’

  It was the first joke he had made. I laughed. I said we could ride past Flagstaff House the next morning.

  ‘So we could.’

  *

  But we didn’t. On that Tuesday morning he was late joining me on the front verandah where I waited, smoking, watched by the two syces who had brought the horses up. Usually only one syce came, riding one horse and leading the other. When I first came out it was drizzling slightly but now it was clearing rapidly in that way which foretold a hot sunny morning. Remembering the funeral I asked the syces whether the bazaar was very crowded. The syce I knew said no, but it was said there were many people at the station, and he had seen people making for there. The bazaar would be crowded later, with people who had nothing better to do than look at a Congresswallah. That was why he had brought a companion; in case when they went back the crowds were big enough to worry the horses.

  I said that was wise, and smiled because almost invariably the people who served us spoke contemptuously of politicians. A form of flattery. It was nearly twenty-past seven before father came out. The syces stood to attention and salaamed him.

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Well done,’ as if bringing the horses up on time stretched their mental and physical resources. He said this every morning. And every morning he kissed me lightly on the cheek. This morning he did not kiss me. He put his arm round my shoulders and exerted faint pressure but did not look at me. He looked at his watch instead and apologized for being late. I asked him whether he had got his cards with him. I had to explain what I meant.

  ‘Oh, lots of time for that. Lots of time.’

  He led off as usual and once out on the road turned to the north, towards Muddarabad.

  As I trailed behind him (the wisest thing to do on this narrow twisting section of road whose high-banked bends could mask the noise of trucks that sometimes used it) I felt vaguely disappointed. A change of route would have suited my buoyant mood. I had hoped that this morning would be different but obviously it was going to be like all the others unless I could force a variation, persuade him past the halt, into the village.

  But it was he who forced the variation. About a quarter of a mile before we reached the halting place we came to a road that led in from our right. We had taken this road once or twice on the way home. Now, without more warning than a glance behind to check my position, he led into it, then reined in to let me come up and said, ‘I thought we’d take a look at that.’

  That was the old dak bungalow, wedged in the hillside, about a quarter of a mile away. A track would take us up to it. The bungalow hadn’t been used for years, to my knowledge. It had always looked derelict to me. But this morning as we approached I saw the figure of a boy on the verandah. I said, ‘There’s someone there.’

  ‘So there is. Good Lord.’

  He was a poor actor. And getting closer I now recognized the mali’s boy. He had on the blue mazri shirt that had originally been one of father’s, which mother had handed on to the gardener who had since had it cut down to fit his son.

  ‘Isn’t that mali’s boy?’ father asked, forcing his tone. ‘Well I never. What’s the young scamp doing here?’

  The boy had begun to unpack a haversack. I said, ‘Playing truant I expect. It looks as if he’s brought food for the day. Wouldn’t it be nice if he’d got sandwiches and coffee and offered us some?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think much hope. All the same. Jove. Yes, wouldn’t it, just? Still, mustn’t count our chickens.’

  We came up the steep and partially overgrown track in file. Far off I could hear the coppersmith. The sun had got up well into a clear sky. The old bungalow looked as if it were resting on the vapour which clung to the green hillside. Beneath my horse’s rather clumsily placed hooves small wet pebbles slithered and crunched.

  What is all this? my father called to the grinning urchin, in Urdu. What are you doing here? Making arrangements for breakfast, Sahib, the boy called back. Father laughed. He shouted up, Will there be breakfast for us also? For Sahib and Memsahib-miss, the boy called back.

  ‘I say, we’re in luck. Free scoff.’

  Another urchin appeared to hold the horses. A well-bred urchin. Ignoring the burra sahib he stood first by me while I dismounted. I thanked him and asked him whether he was Fariqua’s friend. He said he was. I asked him his name. He said, ‘Ashok.’ Ashok and Fariqua. A Hindu boy and a Muslim boy. Ashok led the horses round to the back. We went up the rickety steps to the ruinous-looking but in fact still quite stout verandah. On the wooden table Fariqua had spread out the feast on a coloured cloth: thermos, cups, pot of sugar, pot of salt, spoons, plates, unnecessary knives and forks, stacks of sandwiches wrapped in paper already appetizingly stained with what looked like bacon-fat.

  ‘Well done,’ father said. ‘Bus.’

  The boy saluted and ran off to join his friend. (Later they came and squatted on their hunkers at some distance, in silence, observing us gravely.)

  We sat side by side on the old bench. I reached for the thermos. ‘No, let me,’ he said. Pouring tea his hand scarcely trembled. He said, ‘Better than leaving one’s card.’

  ‘Much better.’

  He’d woken early, he explained, and had the idea, had got the servants moving, but it had taken longer than he imagined. The boy hadn’t been able to leave with the picnic breakfast until ten to seven, so he’d hung around, made a long business of shaving and dressing, to guard against our catching the boy up. He’d wanted it to be a surprise.

  ‘It’s a lovely surprise.’

  I’d never been to the old dak bungalow before. There had never been a reason to – even as a child. It was too close to home, wherever home had variously been in Pankot, a different home every summer, practically. The dak bungalow (open in those days, now declined, neglected) had been a point of reference in a familiar landscape. From it I now had a view of Pankot new enough to make the place look oddly unfamiliar.

  He opened the first package of sandwiches.

  ‘They won’t be a patch on those we had on the train,’ he said. ‘Bacon sandwiches have to mature a bit, don’t they? Crisp but not brittle. Not too moist, not too dry. I’m afraid this batch only got put down an hour ago. All the same, they don’t smell too bad.’

  And they tasted good. We munched for a while, content. It must have been now that the two boys came back to watch us.

  ‘Did you know about our young supernumerary?’

  ‘Fariqua’s friend? Is he a supernumerary?’

  ‘Well, I think he’s attached himself to our strength. I caught sight of him the other day when I went round the servants’ quarters. Thought he was just visiting because he dodged out of the way. But this morning I found him and Fariqua curled up in the goat-shed.’

  ‘Hasn’t he a home?’

  ‘Probably several. None permanent. Orphan. Ambitious boy, though. Tells me he’s going to Rajputana one day, to become a mahout, ride an elephant for a maharajah. Meanwhile he scrapes a living running errands in the bazaar and sleeping where he can, I suppose. I should have told mali to boot him out but hadn’t the heart. Trouble is, once you’ve recognized the existence of a boy like that you’re in a fair way to having to pay for services rendered but not wanted. Mali doesn’t need two boys to help him, does he? Not with the little he has to do nowadays.’

  What he meant was: now that the rose beds are gone. He missed the garden more than he would ever admit. From where we sat I could see the fold near the peak of East Hill behind which Rose Cottage lay. I tried to make out the fir tree that stood at the farthest point of the grounds. I said, ‘Well, the tennis-court needs some keeping up.’

  ‘I expect it does.’

  I waited. I thought he was going to talk about Mabel. The roses. Or the grave. It hardly mattere
d which. They were all connected. But he went on, ‘We must have a game presently. Bit strenuous for me at the moment though. But don’t you and Susan give it up just because I’m back. I’d enjoy watching. You could get up a foursome. Young Drew maybe. And some other young fellow.’

  He hesitated. ‘I expect there are other young fellows? Been up before, waiting for a chance to come up again?’

  ‘It shouldn’t be difficult to make up a four.’

  ‘With anyone in particular?’

  I pretended not to understand, tilted my head at him, filling my mouth with bacon sandwich.

  ‘Any young fellow who’d be particularly keen? This young ADC for example. Nigel Rowan?’

  ‘Nigel Rowan’s down in Ranpur.’

  ‘What I mean is, well, forget tennis. Any young fellow in particular, special from your point of view, that I don’t know about?’

  I continued munching sandwich and considered the situation from what I imagined must be his point of view, looked at a woman, now twenty-five, who had been back in India for six years, and who must surely long since have worn out the excuse that of two sisters she was the less obviously attractive. Statistically, the odds against her remaining single or unattached must have been higher than in any comparable period. India had been jam-packed with eligible young men, and proportionately shorter than ever of eligible women. There were several possible explanations, none of them comforting to anyone who had her happiness at heart: she was frightened of men, she was one of the world’s born old maids, she was consumed by a passion for a man who hadn’t noticed her or who was married or for some other reason unattainable; or, she preferred women. Of these possibilities the consuming and unrequited passion was the one that most fathers would find the least disturbing and I wished badly that I could have confessed such a thing to him. Being unable to, being unable to confess to any of these things, I felt unsatisfactory and inadequate. I said, ‘There’s no one in particular so far, daddy.’

  We went on, munching bacon sandwiches and Ashok and Fariqua continued to observe us, as though we were exhibits which it was only part of their job to look after, the other part being to watch us closely for clues to the trick we were performing to sustain an illusion of our ordinariness, the illusion that the Sahib-log too liked to eat and take a rest and did not live like birds of paradise, perpetually in flight, feeding on celestial dew.

  ‘Has there never been anyone in particular?’

  ‘You mean someone I wanted to marry?’

  ‘Yes. That sort of in particular.’

  I shook my head, pushed the sandwiches closer to him. He took one – seemed to think about it – and then placed it on one side. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what are your feelings towards Ronald Merrick?’

  I stopped chewing and stared at him. I remember that: just staring at him, and suddenly wondering whether there was a plot to try to pair me off with the only man I could easily think of who appalled me. To avoid answering I turned the question. I asked him what his feelings were.

  He regarded me rather sombrely.

  ‘He wasn’t what I expected. Being a friend of Teddie’s – the same rank – I’d expected a younger man.’

  ‘He wasn’t a friend of Teddie’s. They only shared the same quarters in Mirat.’

  ‘But he was best man.’

  ‘A last-minute substitute.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Not that it matters.’

  ‘I think it mattered to Teddie.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, I was there. I think Teddie regretted it. If I’d been in Teddie’s shoes I’d have regretted it too. Hasn’t mother or Aunt Fenny told you what happened at the wedding?’

  ‘I know about the stone some chap threw that hit Teddie and delayed the ceremony.’

  ‘The stone was thrown at Ronald but nobody realized that at the time, or why a stone had been thrown at all. The only explanation seemed to be that it was intended for the Nawab. The Nawab had lent us cars and the cars had crests on them. So we imagined the stone was thrown in error by someone who didn’t like the people at the palace. We ended up guarded by MPS. That was a mess too. When the Nawab and his party turned up at the Gymkhana Club for the reception, the MPS didn’t know who he was and tried to stop him coming in because he was an Indian. Then when we were seeing Teddie and Susan off at the station we were bothered by a poor old woman who prostrated herself at Ronald’s feet. The whole thing was a mess but by then we knew who Ronald was. We knew the name of the district where he’d been superintendent of police.’

  ‘Yes, I know all that. Ronald’s told me himself. But I shouldn’t think Teddie held it against him for long. It was hardly Ronald’s fault.’

  My father picked up the sandwich now and bit into it. I poured us more tea.

  ‘What was Teddie Bingham like?’ he asked.

  ‘A bit like young Mr Drew. But not so shy.’

  ‘Your Aunt Fenny told me he was rather attentive to you, at one time, before his engagement to Susan.’

  ‘Yes. Actually it got to the stage where I was afraid he might propose.’

  ‘Why afraid?’

  ‘I realized how easy it would be just to say yes. A girl can, you know. It’s a kind of inertia. You think well, why not? It’s what’s expected. Getting married to a fairly presentable man. Decent background. Good regiment. Nothing known against. And it’s very flattering to be wooed a bit. Even by someone as automatic and predictable as Teddie.’

  I should have liked to tell him about the night things came to a head, with Teddie obviously thinking the wooing drill had gone on long enough and that it was time to clarify things between us; the night he shifted gear and became fastidiously amorous, kissing me for so long that it was like a breath-holding contest and we both longed to come up for air, and then knew beyond any doubt that we were both bored with one another. But I felt you couldn’t tell your father a thing like that about the man who had gone on to marry your sister. So instead I said, ‘Why did you ask about my feelings towards Ronald Merrick?’

  ‘I asked because – well, I’ve been given to understand that you had some special – no, that’s wrong – that you might have some special regard for him.’

  ‘Who gave you to understand, daddy?’

  ‘Your Aunt Fenny. She’s very fond of you, you know. She has your happiness very much at heart.’

  ‘And I’m fond of her. But I can’t think why she should think that. I told her a long time ago what I felt about Ronald Merrick.’

  ‘Yes, but she wondered whether there might have been a change of heart. No, I’m exaggerating again. She said a change of heart couldn’t be ruled out.’

  ‘Well it can. I can’t imagine how Aunt Fenny could get such an idea. She saw us together often enough when he turned up in Bombay. So did you, daddy. I don’t like him. It must show.’

  ‘I wouldn’t actually say that.’

  ‘Well whether it shows or not, that’s the situation. Furthermore he knows I don’t like him.’

  ‘Oh?’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t think he does.’ He leant back. ‘Neither does your mother. She has much the same impression as Fenny. That you might have a special regard for him.’

  ‘Mother told you I might have a special regard for Ronald Merrick?’

  He studied me very seriously.

  ‘Yes. Have you?’

  ‘No, daddy.’

  ‘I didn’t really think so, but I wouldn’t hold out as an expert, you know, not against Fenny and your mother. So I wanted to be sure. Can I be sure?’

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  ‘Why don’t you like him?’

  ‘I can’t easily explain why.’

  ‘I know he’s not, well – how stuffy it sounds – but not quite our class.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound stuffy at all. It’s true. He’s not quite our class. Class has always been important to us. Why should it suddenly stop being important?’

  He had leant forward, arms on the table. He was smoothing one s
ide of the close-cropped moustache with his knuckles. He seemed puzzled. It wasn’t the kind of reaction he expected. Not from the rebel of the family.

  He said, ‘It’s only important over quite a narrow area of life, although I agree it’s an important area. The private bit. It’s easier to be intimate with someone who comes out of the same box. But there are other areas where it’s not important at all. Areas where it’s actually harmful, I’d say. Anyway, in Ronald Merrick’s case, does it honestly arise? Unless we insist on looking only at the background?’

  ‘You mean he’s our class now? That he’s made the effort to raise himself to our level and if he keeps quiet about his origins no one will know they weren’t much cop. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘He doesn’t try to hide them. That’s one thing in his favour.’

  ‘One thing? All right. One thing.’

  ‘Surely he has a lot of admirable qualities?’

  ‘Like what, daddy?’

  ‘Like physical courage, moral too, I dare say. No, I don’t dare say, I do say. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I prefer a bit of moral cowardice myself.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Or whatever it is that makes you admit there can be two sides to a question, other points of view as good as your own.’

  ‘That’s not moral cowardice.’

  ‘I said moral cowardice because you said moral courage. And moral courage is so often what you say people have who really only have their minds rigidly made up to suit themselves.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He smoothed the other side of the moustache. ‘I suppose it can be. I’d not thought of it like that. And I grant you in Ronald’s case a certain inflexibility. But you often find it in men who’ve had to fight their way up the ladder. They have to work so much harder. Did you know he lost both parents when he was only fifteen?’

  ‘He mentioned it once.’

  ‘You know what they were?’

  ‘He said they were in a very small way. I didn’t inquire how small or what way.’

  ‘They had a small shop in North London. Newsagent, tobacconist. That sort of thing. I got the impression that before the First World War they were both in service. The shop did pretty well and they took over a larger one. Ronald began at a local boardschool but got scholarships and ended at quite a good grammar. Then the parents were killed in a motor-accident. There was a country uncle somewhere but he wasn’t interested in the boy. The assistant headmaster of the school was, though. He took him in to live as a ward and to stay on and matriculate. This fellow had some sort of Indian connections or interests. Socially it was a leg up. Ronald said he imagined if his parents hadn’t died he’d have been shoved into something like insurance or accountancy. He knows he owes everything to the schoolmaster. Not just the chance to complete his education but the chance of a better background as well. A good enough one to scrape him into the Indian Police. Physically and academically he must have been more than good enough.’