Motherland

by William Nicholson

  ‘He’s the loser,’ says Larry.

  ‘No,’ says Geraldine simply. ‘I was the loser.’

  Tarkhan now wakes, and looks at the road, and then checks his watch.

  ‘We’ll be back in good time for dinner,’ he says.

  29

  Ed Avenell descends the flank of Edenfield Hill, steadily tramping down the sheep path that cuts a diagonal into the valley. The evening sun, low in the sky, casts deep shadows over the bowls and billows of the Downs. As he goes the lines of the song run in his head, round and round.

  If I didn’t care

  More than words can say

  If I didn’t care

  Would I feel this way?

  Sometimes he walks the Downs for hours looking and not seeing, wanting only to stop caring, to stop feeling. There’s a state he can sometimes reach if he walks long and far enough that is very like intoxication, a state in which he loses all sense of himself. Rabbits scuttle into the gorse as he passes; sheep lumber away. He envies them their lives. You only have to look at a sheep to know it has no idea at all that it’s a sheep, or even that it has an existence. It does what it needs to do, eats, sleeps, flees from danger, tends its young, all from instinct. People talk of animals as being innocent, and incapable of sin. Even when they see a fox eat a rabbit alive, they say it’s obeying its nature. But animals aren’t innocent, they’re merely moral blanks. There’s no more evil in a fox than in an earthquake. And no more good, either. This is what Ed envies. They have sidestepped the judgement. They know nothing of the speeding car that will crush them on the road, or the slaughterhouse at the end of the country lane.

  Not to care. Not to feel. That’s the trick. Then to return home as empty as a discarded wine bottle, and to see, beyond the opening door, her questioning eyes. How is he this time? Is he drunk or sober? Does he love me or does he not?

  All it takes is a few simple words, but the words don’t come. What paralysis is it that has him in its grip? If she could hear the crying in his head she would be reassured, but also dismayed. I love you, I love you, I love you, constant as the west wind. And relentless as the wind from the east comes the other cry. All for nothing, all for nothing.

  The path leads him down to America Cottage, which has been unlived-in for many years now. The way to the coach road runs between the cottage and the collection of barns beside it, where the tenant of Home Farm stores his hay. Ed is passing round the end of the long barn when he hears voices, and comes to a stop to listen. There are two voices, a man’s and a woman’s. From where he stands he can’t see into the barn, but the voices come clearly through the thin board walls.

  The man’s voice says, ‘Baby wants cuddles.’

  The woman’s voice says, ‘Bad baby wants spanky-spank.’

  There follows a scuffling sound, mingled with gasping and laughter. Then the man’s voice says, ‘Bare botty! Bare botty! Spanky-spank!’ More scuffling and panting. Then the woman, ‘What’s Georgy got here? What’s this then? Where’s this come from?’

  Ed is frozen to the spot, afraid of drawing attention to himself. If he walks on to the coach road he’ll pass the open front of the barn and they’ll see him. His only option is to retrace his steps as quietly as possible. Instead, he moves a little closer to the barn wall, where there’s a gap in the boards. He doesn’t mean to spy, and doesn’t think of himself as spying, but he is compelled by a powerful impulse to understand.

  ‘Baby wants cuddles,’ the man is saying, more urgently now.

  ‘Bad baby,’ says the woman. ‘Bad baby with his trousers down.’

  Ed can see now, through the gap in the boards, through a fringe of hay, a large pink thigh, a rucked-up dress, a writhing half-undressed form beyond.

  ‘Baby wants cuddles,’ says the man, his voice choking.

  ‘Bad baby,’ says the woman, soothing, chanting, spreading her legs. ‘Bad baby.’

  After this there are no more words, only the gasping sounds of the man and the creaking and scratching of the hay that is their bed. Ed moves quietly away.

  He knows both of them. The man is George Holland, Lord Edenfield. The woman is Gwen Willis, who comes twice a week to the farmhouse to clean and do the ironing. Ed knows her as a simple kindly woman in her mid-forties.

  He reaches the sunken coach road and moves out of sight behind its fringe of trees. Here for no reason he comes to a stop. There’s a fallen tree that offers its trunk as a bench, shaded by the canopy of the other trees. Ed sits himself down and waits.

  What am I waiting for?

  Not to shame poor George, that he’s sure of. And yet he is waiting for George. He wants to touch and be touched by that simple urgent delight that he spied on in the barn. He wants to know that it’s real. For all its absurdity, Ed senses that he has been a witness to a powerful force, one strong enough to override all convention, all good sense, and every instinct of self-preservation. George is riding the life force itself.

  In time he hears voices again, then footsteps. Mrs Willis appears in the coach road, walking fast, alone. She throws him a startled look, and hurries past without a word. Some moments pass. Then George appears, strolling with an aimless air.

  He too jumps when he sees Ed.

  ‘Oh!’ he says.

  ‘Hello, George,’ says Ed. ‘Lovely evening for a walk.’

  ‘Yes,’ says George, going bright red.

  Ed gets up off his tree trunk and joins George, ambling slowly down the track.

  ‘Look, Ed,’ says George at last. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything, old chap,’ says Ed. ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘None of my business.’

  This evidently gives George much-needed relief.

  ‘I appreciate that,’ he says.

  They walk on. Ahead through the trees loom the roofs and pinnacles of Edenfield Place.

  ‘I say, Ed,’ says George.

  ‘Yes, George?’ says Ed.

  ‘It’s not the way it looks, you know.’

  ‘If you say so, George.’

  ‘Look, stop for a moment, will you?’

  They stop. George peers earnestly at Ed through his glasses, then looks equally earnestly at the stones of the track.

  ‘This is nothing whatsoever to do with Louisa,’ he says.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of saying a word,’ says Ed.

  ‘No, I mean it really is nothing to do with her. I love her dearly. George Holland will always be a good and faithful husband to her. Always.’

  ‘Right,’ says Ed.

  ‘But you see, there’s someone else. There’s Georgy.’

  It’s clear from the earnestness with which he speaks that George needs him to understand what he’s confessing to him.

  ‘Georgy’s quite different. Georgy likes to play games. Georgy isn’t shy or afraid of making a fool of himself, not with his Doll. Georgy is happy, Ed.’

  ‘Right,’ says Ed.

  ‘Happier than I’ve ever been. And Georgy can do things I can’t do. There’s no real harm in that, is there? If Georgy can do it with Doll, then you never know. Maybe …’

  ‘Why not?’ says Ed.

  ‘I expect I seem a bit of a joke to you. I’m a bit of a joke to most people.’

  ‘No,’ says Ed. ‘Right now I’m thinking you’re a bit of a genius.’

  ‘A genius? I don’t think I’m that, you know.’

  ‘Tell me, George. When you go back to the house, now. When you meet Louisa. Will you be thinking about what you’ve just been doing? Will you be afraid Louisa might guess?’

  ‘No,’ says George. ‘You see, I’ve not been doing anything. That was Georgy.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Silly of me.’

  They part outside the big house. Ed’s opinion of George has undergone a reappraisal. He’s impressed by the radical simplicity of his solution. Faced with irreconcilable demands upon him, by the world in which he lives and by his own needs, he has spli
t himself into two people. Who knows through what accident he discovered this other self, the Georgy who finds his erotic fulfilment in the nursery? But having encountered him he has embraced him, made room for him in his life, and not judged him. This seems to Ed to be an act of great maturity.

  Georgy is happy.

  What greater achievement is there in any man’s life?

  Ed walks back across the park to the farmhouse, his thoughts occupied with this revelation. He too is pulled in opposite directions, by his love for Kitty and by his need to be alone. What if he were to split himself in two as George has done? One self could be the loving husband, while the other self remains untouched and untouchable.

  He has never considered such a solution before, because he has assumed that there’s a fundamental dishonesty to it. According to his own sense of integrity, his duty to Kitty is to tell her the truth about himself. Only then, surely, can he know that she truly loves him. But it strikes him now that this is selfish. This need to know that it’s the real him who is loved: what is it but the child’s fierce grip on the mother?

  Baby wants cuddles.

  Look at it from Kitty’s point of view. What she wants is to know that he loves her. So why not construct, for Kitty’s benefit, out of all the real love he has for her, a part-self, an Ed who can give her all she needs? This wouldn’t be a falsehood, just an incomplete version. He imagines doing this, playing the part of an Ed who loves her and has no darker fears. To his amazement he finds at once he’s released. He can say the words she so longs to hear.

  But she’ll see through his act, surely. She knows him too well. He considers what he’ll say if challenged. He’ll say, Yes, it’s an act, but this loving Ed is real too. What will she say then? Will she say, Only all of you is enough for me?

  There’s Pammy too. And a new baby coming. This half-Ed can be a good father, in fact has been a good father for some time. The self he brings to his daughter is exactly that, a partial, edited self, suitable for children.

  Think of it as a good Ed and a bad Ed. The bad Ed is weak or sick or mad. He drinks too much to numb all sensation, because the world to him is a dark and purposeless place. The bad Ed withdraws from contact with other people, most of all those he loves, because he knows his unhappiness is contagious. The good Ed is funny and brave and loving. The good Ed is the one Kitty fell in love with, the one who talks late into the night with Larry, the one who dances in the fields by moonlight. The good Ed has a shot at happiness.

  He gets home, and pushing open the farmhouse door, calls out cheerfully, ‘I’m back.’

  Good Ed is back.

  The kitchen is empty. He hears the sloshing of water upstairs. Bath time. He climbs the stairs to the bathroom. There’s Kitty on her knees by the bath, and Pamela, pink and naked, squirming in the bath.

  ‘Here you are,’ he says. ‘My two lovely girls.’

  Kitty looks round in surprise.

  ‘This is an honour,’ she says.

  ‘Do my story, Daddy,’ says Pamela.

  ‘I will,’ says Ed, ‘as soon as you’re washed and dressed. But first I want to kiss my wife, because I love her.’

  ‘Yuck!’ says Pamela, impressed.

  Ed kisses Kitty.

  ‘What’s brought this on?’ says Kitty.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ says Ed. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of thinking.’

  Pamela splashes in the bath water, wanting attention.

  ‘Not about you,’ says Ed. ‘I never think about you.’

  ‘You do! You do think about me!’ shrieks the little girl, eyes bright.

  ‘Well, whatever it is, it’s much appreciated,’ says Kitty, fetching a towel to lift Pamela out of the bath. ‘Nice to have a husband who comes home and wants to kiss his wife.’

  The good Ed is a great success. It turns out Kitty has noticed nothing amiss after all.

  30

  The Maharaj Rana of Dholpur drinks his tea with modest sips, then puts down the cup and sighs.

  ‘I can’t tell you that I like what is happening, Captain Cornford. This new India is a very recent invention. Dholpur’s Paramountcy Treaty with Britain goes back to 1756.’

  He’s a small scholarly man, who wears a pink turban. In ’21, during George V’s tour of India, he and Dickie Mountbatten were ADCs together. Now, prince and ruler of his own state, history is about to brush him aside.

  ‘Do me a favour,’ Mountbatten told Larry earlier. ‘Look after Dholpur while he’s in Delhi. He’s a decent man.’

  ‘I suppose these days,’ Larry says to the maharaj, ‘it’s harder to justify imperial rule by a far-off country.’

  ‘Ah, these days.’ Dholpur sighs again. ‘That is the modern mind in action. The assumption that fundamental truths must change with time. Are you a religious man, Captain Cornford?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Larry. ‘Catholic.’

  ‘Catholic?’ The maharaj brightens. ‘Like the Stuart kings of England. Then perhaps you will understand when I tell you that I believe most profoundly in the divine right of kings. The so-called Glorious Revolution of 1688, that drove James II into exile, was in my opinion both a disaster and an outrage. All the suffering that has followed springs from the false notion that the people can choose their own rulers. How are they to choose? What do the people know? Let God choose, and let the people be humbly thankful.’

  ‘I see you’re no believer in democracy,’ says Larry.

  ‘Democracy!’ The maharaj gives him a look that combines melancholy with contempt. ‘You think the people of India are choosing their rulers? You think when the British are gone the people of India will be free? Just wait a little, my friend. Wait, and watch, and weep.’

  *

  In these last days before the transfer of power the viceroy’s staff work ever longer hours. They’re planning the two days of ceremonial that will see the creation of two new sovereign nations. Sir Cyril Radcliffe, who has been shut away for weeks in a bungalow on the viceregal estate, has almost completed the award of the Boundary Commission. Everyone knows that once the details of the award are made public, the trouble will begin. Punjab and Bengal have now been partitioned; only Sylhet in Assam remains. Mountbatten makes it known that a late delivery on August 13th would be acceptable, fully aware that on that day he flies to Karachi for Pakistan’s independence ceremony on August 14th. The following day, August 15th, India’s Independence Day, is to be a national holiday, and the printing presses will be closed. In this way the precise details of the two new nations will not be made public until the celebrations are over.

  The viceroy’s staff spend the day of August 14th clearing their desks and contemplating the historic moment they are about to witness. The general feeling is that the British are making a dignified job of winding up the Empire, thanks in no small part to the charm, energy, and informality of the Mountbattens.

  ‘He’s an amazing chap,’ Rupert Blundell says to Larry, as they break for a much-needed drink. ‘He loves dressing up and prancing about with his medals, but actually he’s the least stuffy man I’ve ever met. He’s a member of the royal family, his nephew’s marrying our future queen, but he’s all for the Labour government. You know, in some strange way I think he sees himself as an outsider.’

  ‘She’s the one who amazes me,’ says Larry. By this he means Edwina. ‘They all adore her.’ By this he means the Indian leaders.

  ‘You know she and Dickie fight like cats,’ says Rupert. ‘But you’re right. He adores her too.’

  With the coming of independence, Mountbatten will cease to be viceroy, but will stay on as Governor-General of India. Viceroy’s House is to become Government House. Some staff will remain, but many will go. Syed Tarkhan, a Muslim, plans to leave for Karachi, where he is to be an ADC to Jinnah. Rupert Blundell has decided to stay on for two more weeks, to assist in the transition, and then he and Geraldine will go home.

  ‘What will you do then?’ Larry asks him.

  ‘Back to academia, I think. Charlie Broad says
he’ll have me at Trinity. How about you?’

  ‘God knows,’ says Larry.

  On that same day, Independence eve, as the monsoon rains stream down over the Mughal Gardens, he has a conversation with Geraldine Blundell that focuses his thoughts. She’s been talking to Rupert, and is curious to know about the banana connection. Unlike most others, she doesn’t seem to think this is comical.

  ‘So Fyffes is your family firm, is it?’

  ‘In a way,’ says Larry. ‘We’re actually a wholly owned subsidiary of the United Fruit Company. But they leave the UK operation to us.’

  ‘Is it a big firm?’

  ‘Before the war we employed over four thousand people. The war hit us hard. But we’re building the business back up again.’

  Hearing himself speak he’s struck by his use of the possessive pronoun ‘we’. Somehow here on the other side of the world his sense of separation from the family firm has diminished.

  ‘And your father runs it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. My grandfather started it, in 1892. My father took over in ’29.’

  ‘And you’ll take over from him?’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. I’ve not really ever been part of the firm.’

  Geraldine’s eyes open wide in astonishment.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I had other ideas. You know how when you’re young you want to go your own way.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t you have a duty?’ She looks at him so earnestly that he feels ashamed of his youthful dreams. ‘You’re born into privilege. You have to accept the responsibility that goes with it, don’t you?’

  ‘All I can tell you,’ says Larry, feeling uncomfortable, ‘is that it didn’t feel that way.’

  ‘So what was it you wanted to do?’

  Larry shrugs, aware how inadequate his answer will sound to her; indeed, in this moment it sounds inadequate to his own ears.

  ‘I wanted to be an artist.’

  ‘An artist! You mean someone who paints pictures?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think that’s wonderful, Larry. But it’s not a job.’

  Geraldine sees everything in a simple clear light, not distorted by vanity or illusion. She’s strongly pragmatic, concerned to deal only with the realities of life, but she’s also idealistic in her way. She believes in the grace of God.