A Division of the Spoils

by Paul Scott

  An exchange of compliments. A bleak pause. Dmitri hovering in the background, a gaunt one-eyed guardian, smiling but alert. Then the Nawab offered some samples from his stock of small-talk. I replied in kind. Suddenly he frowned. Perron? he asked. A descendant of the successor to Benoit de Boigne? His ancestors could have had no love for either of them. Relief, when I disclaimed connection. Then the preliminary to courtly dismissal. I must be sure to inform Count Bronowsky of anything necessary to my comfort and to my researches. A friendly, shy, smile. No handshake in parting. He turns to Dmitri as if wondering whether he has omitted anything. One realized his dependence and his current distraction. Before he went he silently pressed both Sarah’s hands. Then he and Dmitri went out through another set of doors. A glimpse of a much larger chamber with about a dozen people in it, who bowed deeply; one even making full obeisance.

  Sarah and I leave in solemn but not too solemn silence. We run the gauntlet of servants making namaste (to her, not to me, I think). Then she drove me back to Nigel’s bungalow. Tippoo was waiting on the verandah. She wouldn’t stay for a drink. I didn’t press her. She seemed preoccupied.

  But before I let her go I said, ‘What did happen to Ronald?’

  She said, ‘Don’t ask me, Guy. Ask Nigel. Or Dmitri. Or better still, nobody.’

  IV

  After lunch he slept again. But sleep was intermittent. There was another storm, brief but disturbing, and the rain brought out that smell of damp, of decay. He woke between dozes with a persistent sense of ill-being and was thankful when Tippoo brought in his tea at four o’clock. He thought of starting a letter to Aunt Charlotte, but the room was suddenly intolerable. He dressed and went out to the rear compound to get air and sunshine. There was no sound from Merrick’s compound. He inspected the banyan tree. How old would it be? One hundred years at least? So fine a specimen would be especially holy. But its holiness lent no tranquillity to the bungalows in whose compounds it grew.

  He found the gate in the compound wall unlocked so went through. Today Merrick’s garden looked less well-tended. Overnight the grass seemed to have grown an inch. All the green tattis between the white columns had been rolled up, exposing windows obviously locked and shuttered. One could visualize indoors the shrouded shapes of furniture draped in dust-covers, signs that the occupants had gone and that no one knew when they might be back.

  He went towards the house intending to go up on to the verandah but then decided he shouldn’t intrude on so much absence, so much impending absence, so much darkness, so much loss. He took the path that skirted the side of the bungalow and came out into the front and stood still, hackles rising.

  A van was drawn up. Down the steps from the front verandah two men were carrying a black coffin. The coffin was tilted downwards, resting on their shoulders. When they reached ground level they jog-trotted to the van, then shoved the coffin into the back.

  Not a coffin. Merrick’s trunk. Another man was bringing down the long sagging sausage of the rolled hall carpet. This went into the truck too. Then the rear flap was put up and fixed. Two of the men got in the back, the other went to the front. Khansamar came down the steps carrying an object that glinted. A picture in a frame. The boy’s picture of the old Queen. He handed it to the driver and then went back indoors.

  When Perron returned to his own room he paused on the threshold, convinced that in the few seconds it had taken him to open the door someone who had been in there had got away, only just in time.

  *

  By nine o’clock that night Rowan still hadn’t arrived back and Sarah hadn’t rung. Tippoo persuaded him not to wait any longer so once again he ate alone. Afterwards he sat on the front verandah with his notebook, his file of newspaper cuttings, a pair of scissors and the day’s papers which Tippoo assured him Rowan wouldn’t mind him cutting up. A light shone from the clerk’s office. He hadn’t seen the clerk except on some of the occasions when the telephone rang or the dak came, or a despatch rider turned up. Otherwise the little man kept to his room, so far as Perron could tell.

  He sat with notebook and files and papers untouched, drinking brandy and soda. He was half-inclined to knock at the clerk’s door, invite him to join him, get him to talk about the routine of keeping records for a political agent, or about his life; about anything. Instead he continued drinking alone, watching the moths and insects dance round the dim depressingly yellow verandah lights. The lights were too dim to work by. The light in his own room was better. He didn’t want to go back to his room. The room undermined his confidence. The whole bungalow undermined it. Perhaps Mirat undermined it. Perhaps Mirat was a mistake.

  He opened the Ranpur Gazette, began to read ‘Pandora’s Box’ again but grew tired of it within a paragraph or two. He turned pages, holding the newspaper at an angle to get some light on it. There was no cartoon, but, on the middle pages, boxed, was a piece called ‘Alma Mater’ by Philoctetes. He folded the newspaper so that he could read this.

  ‘On Sunday when the happy occasion at Government College was over, when the inaugural dais for the opening of the Chakravarti wing had been stripped of its bunting, of its red carpet and striped awning, the raw timber scaffolding exposed (and already under the destructive hammers of carpenters) I visited the new extension hoping I would pass as someone with business to do there.

  ‘I need not have worried. No one challenged me. The carpenters and the workmen assumed I was a member of the college staff and such members of the staff as I encountered assumed I was connected with the builders.

  ‘Assured of anonymity I had a free run of the college-to-be. Occasionally I faced dangers in the shape either of planks and ladders where walls are still being whitewashed or plastered, or of piles of tins, canvas sheets and tools of humbler trades than will be learned here. But unmolested I visited class and lecture-rooms (a few with window panes already cracked or broken) and found no desks, no chairs, and rectangular spaces where blackboards have yet to be installed. The laboratory looked like the ward of a hospital or clinic from which all the beds had been removed and replaced by long pinewood tables and benches which awaited the decision of someone who might say to what use they should be put.

  ‘The present emptiness was not (for me) diminished by anything the imagination could invent about the future. Accompanied only by my own echoing footsteps it seemed unlikely somehow that in a month or two the desks would be in place and students at their places at the desks, teachers standing on these bare platforms and the as yet invisible blackboards already becoming grey from the wiped-off chalk-marks of demonstrated equations.

  ‘Subdued, I left the building and walked down the asphalt path that connects the new building with the old. A few shade trees have already been planted. The old college buildings from here look serene, weathered. I turn, and try to picture the Chakravarti extension as it will be, ten, twenty, fifty years from now, and am glad really, that few if any of those who will then remember it as the benign mother will have seen it quite as I am seeing it now; raw, uncompromising, so clearly dependent on what as yet unproven teachers and as yet unadmitted students must make of it and give to it before they can take anything lasting away from it.

  ‘I walk home, thinking of another place, of seemingly long endless summers and the shade of different kinds of trees; and then of winters when the branches of the trees were bare, so bare that, recalling them now, it seems inconceivable to me that I looked at them and did not think of the summer just gone, and the spring soon to come, as illusions; as dreams, never fulfilled, never to be fulfilled.’

  Philoctetes.

  *

  He read the piece again and coming to that final paragraph for the second time found himself moved. The brandy probably. He poured himself another. He got up. His nervous system seemed suddenly awry. He would have to take some action, if it were only to begin packing, or better (because packing meant going into that bedroom), to ring Sarah and tell her he thought he might as well go back with her as far as Ranpur. He went int
o the hall, consulted the short list of important telephone numbers and asked the operator for 234, the guest house. A servant answered. He asked for Miss Layton and gave his name which was one servants often failed to get right.

  After half-a-minute or so, a woman said, ‘Is that Mr Perron?’ An older woman.

  ‘Yes. Mrs Grace?’

  ‘Yes, hello. I’m afraid Sarah’s not here.’

  ‘I’m sorry to be calling so late.’

  ‘Oh, not late really. I don’t suppose she’ll be long. She’s out to dinner. When shall I meet you? I’ve heard so much about you. Sarah tells me you called on dear old Archie Hapgood. How was he?’

  Mrs Grace had a fine contralto voice. He imagined (not without reason) a comfortable-looking bosom, fullish jowls, carefully set hair and once sharp eyes that were now dimmed a little. He liked the sound of her. He told her he thought Archie Hapgood looked well, then said:

  ‘I rang to tell Sarah I’m thinking of going back to Ranpur, and I wondered whether we might make a party of it. There’s not a great deal for me to do in Mirat now, and I do have to be back in Delhi by the fifteenth. I suppose the main problem is getting a reservation.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be a problem on the day train because nobody needs a sleeper. The trouble is we’re going on Thursday. You mustn’t cut your visit short, unless it really suits you.’

  ‘It would suit me very well.’

  ‘I’ll tell Sarah what you suggest, or leave her a message. How late can she ring you back?’

  ‘No restrictions at this end.’

  ‘Well thank you, Mr Perron. Mr Kasim is coming to Ranpur with us, and perhaps some people called Peabody, but they’re not absolutely sure. An extra man would be rather nice. I suppose it’s awfully foolish of me but since Colonel Layton went back to Pankot I’ve been feeling a bit out of my depth.’

  There spoke the widow, with one widowed niece, one unmarried niece, a grand-nephew and an ayah, all to look after and feel responsible for. They said goodnight to one another; and having made the decision to go he now felt better. He went back to the verandah to pour himself another drink, and wait for Sarah’s call.

  *

  There was no call but just before midnight a car turned into the compound. When it stopped, Tippoo – who had heard it – was already down there, opening the door. Rowan got out. He was alone. Laura’s absence was somehow eloquent. ‘Hello, Guy,’ he said, coming up, ‘I hope you’ve eaten.’

  ‘Yes, I have. What about you?’

  ‘I’ve had something at the palace.’

  ‘Well, have a brandy.’

  Rowan glanced at the bottle. ‘You shouldn’t be drinking your own.’ The clerk came out of his office. ‘Guy, I’ll be with you in ten minutes or so. Unless you’d rather go to bed.’

  ‘The last thing.’

  Rowan went towards the office, then turned round, ‘I nearly forgot. Sarah says she’ll ring you in the morning about your Thursday plan.’

  Alone, Perron poured himself another brandy and soda. Tippoo came past him with Rowan’s suitcase. Ten minutes later he reappeared and said, ‘Sahib?’ Perron found himself being taken indoors, to a room similar in shape to his own bedroom but on the other side of the hall, and furnished as a study, with a desk, and three easy chairs set round a low table on which there were glasses and a decanter. A connecting door, open, gave a glimpse of a larger room – Nigel’s and Laura’s bedroom, presumably. Tippoo went in. Presently Nigel called, ‘With you in a moment, Guy. Help yourself.’

  But he didn’t help himself. He was thinking: Odd – I’ve been here before. And then remembered when and where, and smiled. He looked round the study for the cricket-stump and wondered which of the chairs Rowan would suggest as the best for a slacker at games to kneel on. He was still smiling when Rowan came in. Rowan was smiling too, but at a more recent memory.

  ‘Well, it’s done.’

  ‘The Nawab’s signed? Congratulations.’

  Rowan poured deep amber liquid. ‘Soda?’

  ‘To the top.’

  They raised glasses, drank; then sat. Settled, Rowan said, ‘Well then. I gather you feel you’ve learnt as much as you need in Mirat.’

  ‘I shouldn’t mind having a chat with Dmitri. I gathered that might be possible tomorrow night.’

  ‘But you want to go when the others go, the day after.’

  ‘It would fit in. And I do want to be in Delhi before August fifteen. But I suppose whether I go on Thursday depends on what Sarah and her aunt decide.’

  ‘They’d both welcome you.’

  ‘I gather you’ve seen Sarah tonight?’

  ‘I looked in at the guest house on my way from the palace. She’d just got back and felt it really was too late to ring you.’

  ‘I’m glad she was able to get out somewhere.’

  ‘She was only over at the women’s hospital, saying goodbye to the staff. But they made her stay to supper.’

  ‘In the cantonment?’

  ‘No. The Mirat women’s hospital. Just over the other side of the maidan, here. She’s done a lot of voluntary work for them. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘It used to be a purdah hospital for Muslim women only, but Dmitri got it extended some years ago. She’s been very popular with the patients and the nurses. She even got Shiraz to take an interest. The hospital’s one of the main reasons she’s stayed in Mirat all through the hot weather. If Dmitri had let her she’d have gone out to work at the Biranpur leper colony too. Are you thinking of going all the way up to Pankot with them?’

  ‘Only to Ranpur. I’m rather hoping Ahmed can wangle an interview for me with his father.’

  ‘I’d forgotten your journalistic assignment.’

  ‘It’s hardly that.’

  ‘If you’re not going back to England from Delhi, you could always come down to Gopalakand. I’ve left Laura there. I’ll be closing down here in the next day or two and joining her. Officially I’m still assistant to the resident in Gopalakand – at least until midnight on August fourteen, when we all become redundant. But Conway won’t be going immediately. Laura and I will be there for a week or so as his and the Maharajah’s guests, while we decide about the future. Gopalakand might interest you. Just send me a wire at the Residency if you think it would.’

  ‘It might. Thank you. Is it a very tricky situation?’

  ‘Perhaps only tricky for me. The Maharajkumar told me his father’s going to sign the instrument of accession too. But he’s known Conway a very long time and doesn’t want to hurt him by appearing to disregard his advice completely. I think my last few days in the Political Department are going to be spent as pig-in-the-middle. Smoothing things between Conway and the Maharajah. Gopalakand is a Hindu majority state with a Hindu ruler. The only things at stake are the pride of the ruling family and the pride of the Resident. It’s much larger than Mirat but self-supporting independence is just as much out of the question. If you do come down everything should be peacefully settled by then, and the Maharajah is very hospitable.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll take you up, then.’

  ‘An old friend of Conway’s is coming down too. She’s lived in Rawalpindi for years but doesn’t want to stay on now that it’s becoming part of Pakistan.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Lady Manners.’

  ‘Have you kept up with her?’

  ‘Not kept up. I visited her a few months ago when we were in that area.’

  ‘Did you tell her you’d heard from Hari?’

  ‘I began to. She asked me not to tell her. It’s a subject she doesn’t discuss.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think she feels she did what she had to do and that anything else would be an invasion of his privacy and would smack of condescension.’

  ‘You feel that too?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Does she still have the child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What will happen to it when Lady
Manners dies?’

  ‘I imagine she’ll be looked after by one of Lady Manners’s Indian friends. She’s been brought up to think of herself as Indian. She’s an enchanting little girl.’ Rowan leaned forward and filled their glasses. Perron said:

  ‘How did you meet Laura again?’

  ‘She wrote to me when she got back from prison-camp in Malaya. I’d always kept in touch with her mother. We corresponded for a while. Then we met in Simla. And married.’

  ‘What happened to her first husband?’

  ‘The Japanese killed him. She said it was probably his own fault. He had a bit of a temper. When the Japs first arrived at his rubber estate he put up some sort of show and got knocked about in front of her. They took him to one camp and her to another, of course. Later they sent her his personal effects and a letter of regret informing her that he’d died of fever. She didn’t believe it, it goes without saying. She spent some time in Singapore when the war was over, finding out the truth from fellow prisoners of Tony’s. Some of the truth. It all went to make up further evidence against a Japanese officer who was tried and hanged as a war criminal.’

  ‘Poor Laura.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rowan glanced at him. ‘But I don’t think her first marriage was much of a success either. I gather she made it clear to you yesterday that ours hasn’t been. I don’t know why it hasn’t. But there you are. She hated it here. That’s why I’ve left her in Gopalakand. She said this bungalow reminded her of the one she and Tony lived in in Malaya. It was one of the things she didn’t like about it. So after a week or two we decided she’d better go to the club.’

  ‘One of the things she didn’t like?’

  ‘It’s a bit depressing, isn’t it? And I had to leave her on her own a great deal. After three years in a crowded prison-camp she doesn’t at all mind being alone, but she needs space and air and light. The Residency at Gopalakand works better for her. This place is very closed in. Damp and dark. I’ll be quite glad to get out of it myself. The business of the snake was the last straw. Sarah warned you there’d been one, didn’t she? I asked her to.’