Bhowani Junction

by John Masters

  SEVENTEEN

  The battalion offices were hushed when I got there the next morning. A couple of orderlies sitting on the bench in the corridor leaped to attention as I came up, but there was no one else. I went to the window of my office and looked out. The parade ground was several hundred yards away, but a corner of it showed between two barrack blocks. I saw the twinkle of movement there, and then the pipe band struck up and the drums thudded and the Union Jack fluttered to the masthead, and I remembered. To-day was May 24th, Empire Day.

  I sat down and began to look at the reports and summaries piled up in my In tray. I felt extraordinarily fresh and clear-headed. It had been a good fight last night. The others were at a disadvantage because Patrick was drunk and needlessly abusive, so Pater had spent as much energy in trying to control him as in arguing with me. There would be more to come, but for the moment I felt strong and confident.

  I heard a car arrive at the offices, then voices, then footsteps. Someone went into Colonel Savage’s office, and a Gurkha said, ‘In there, sahib.’ Mr Lanson, the Deputy Superintendent of Police, stood in my doorway, his topi in his hand. He was in uniform and looked pale and grumpy, as though he had not been long enough out of bed. Normally he was quite stolid and even-tempered. Slowly I folded away the Intelligence summary I had been reading and stood up.

  ‘Morning, Miss Jones,’ Lanson said. ‘Sorry to disturb you at this ungodly hour.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Lanson. Won’t you sit down?’ I said, trying not to sound wary.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. He lowered himself carefully into a chak and looked around for a place to hang his topi. Finally he put it on the floor beside him. He said, ‘It’s about Macaulay.’

  I held myself, waiting, and Lanson said, ‘The fact is that when he left you he seems to have gone direct to a—well, a brothel.’

  He pulled a notebook from his tunic pocket and slowly turned over the pages. He was a slow-moving man. He said, ‘He got there, the man who owns the place says, at about a quarter past eight. He doesn’t remember exactly. They never do. I’ve talked to Colonel Savage, and he says Macaulay might easily have gone to such a place. In fact it was Colonel Savage who advised me to pay particular attention to them. I hope I’m not embarrassing you, Miss Jones.’

  ‘No. But how can I help?’ I said. To-day I was wearing the skirt and shirt.

  He said, ‘Of course Macaulay wouldn’t have told you he was going to such a place, but I wondered if he had said anything that would show he intended to go somewhere else—back to his quarters, for instance, or to the station, or the offices here, or the cinema. The man, the owner of this place, is no more and no less reliable than any other witness in a murder case. Somebody might have murdered Macaulay and bribed the brothel man to fake an alibi.’

  ‘He’d have to bribe the girl too,’ I said. Ghanshyam must have done all this.

  ‘The woman was—ah—the proprietor’s—ah—wife,’ Lanson said disgustedly. ‘What I mean is that Macaulay had about a hundred rupees on him, apparently—so his orderly thinks—and of course he had the carbine. Either of those would be quite enough to get him murdered. Besides, it seems so damned silly of him to go into the city when those processions were under way, and he’d been specially warned not to go near the place. And he must have known that he’d be missed here if he didn’t get back at a reasonable hour. Yet he is supposed to have stayed in the brothel for about three hours, till some time past eleven o’clock. So I wondered——’

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. “He didn’t say anything to me. He just said good night, and then I left him. I didn’t even see him start back from the signal.’

  Lanson wrote carefully in his notebook. When he had finished he said, ‘Did he try to kiss you, Miss Jones, or did you kiss him, or—ah—anything? I really am sorry about this, but I have a reason for asking. It seems that Macaulay had been telling some of his friends here that he was very fond of you. He even indicated that you returned his feeling. What I am getting at is that if you did in fact like him——’

  I heard the tramp of boots, the squeak of hobnails on stone, a door opening and shutting. Colonel Savage was in his office next door.

  Lanson lowered his voice. He said, ‘If you did return this—passion, Macaulay is supposed to have called it—it is less likely that he would have gone direct from you to such a place. You see what I mean?’

  I said, ‘I did not like Lieutenant Macaulay, Mr Lanson. He did make advances to me once, very unpleasantly, I gave him no encouragement then or at any other time.’

  ‘But you did let him accompany you home that evening,’ Lanson said gruffly. ‘I don’t like this any more than you do, Miss Jones. But you did, and the Gurkha sentry in the yards says you were very close together when he challenged you. He thought Macaulay——’

  The inner door jerked open, and Colonel Savage was standing there, his Gurkha hat on his head and his jungle-green uniform clean and newly pressed. He said brusquely, ‘If you want to interview one of my officers, Lanson, you will ask my permission.’

  Lanson stood up slowly and turned to face Savage. He said, ‘You weren’t here, Savage, or I would have.’

  Savage said, ‘These are my offices, and you may not use them as a police court. I heard the last part of what you were saying. The partitions are thin. Miss Jones never encouraged Macaulay. In fact, she so obviously disliked him that I ordered Macaulay never to be anywhere alone with her.’

  ‘Then why——?’ Lanson said, and Savage overrode him, saying, ‘If she’d gone home on her bicycle she would have had to pass through a bad corner of the city. The railway was safer, and she didn’t want to go alone. There was no one else except Macaulay to go with her.’

  There was Ranjit Singh,’ Lanson said.

  Savage said, ‘He didn’t offer to go. Miss Jones has got work to do.’

  Lanson stooped for his topi. When he straightened up his face was red He said, ‘All right, Savage. I haven’t got any more to ask her now. But when I have, you want me to subpoena her officially and make her come down to the Kutcherry, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Savage said, ‘and she will come, provided she isn’t on urgent military duty. Or you can ask me if you want to see her here.’

  Lanson nodded stiffly and went out. When his footsteps had died away Savage said curtly, ‘Bring the map of the city into my office,’ and left me.

  I sat a moment in my chair, forcing myself to be calm and cold. It looked as if I was going to be saved by the quarrelling of the British among themselves as much as by Ghanshyam’s schemings. The fools.

  When I went in with the map Henry Dickson was there, and Savage was asking him when he expected his wife.

  Dickson said, ‘Early in June, sir. Probably on the fourth.’

  I stood at the side of the desk, the rolled map in my hand, while the two men talked. I ought to have been thinking of Lanson, but I wasn’t. I was remembering Molly Dickson. She used to ask me quite often to her bungalow in New Delhi. She was a faded blonde woman, youngish, full of nerves. She laughed loudly and suddenly, and moved jerkily, but she was nice. She had a couple of children and used to be an ‘abandoned wife’ in a little house off Lodi Road.

  Savage said, ‘The bungalow in good shape for them?’

  Dickson, said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  Savage said, ‘Good. Let’s have that map, Miss Jones.’

  I unrolled it for him and stood looking over his left shoulder. He said, ‘This is the form: The local Congress committee, headed by Surabhai, have got the Collector’s permission to stage a procession in sympathy with the R.I.N. mutineers. The local branch of the Moslem League, not to be outdone, have done the same. Govindaswami believes in safety valves. He’s allotted this as a route for Congress——’ He ran his finger along a zigzag course in the eastern half of the city—‘and this for the Mohammedans.’ He traced a route in the western half of the city and and went on, ‘Govindaswami thinks the two processions will try to meet. Rat
her, he thinks that Surabhai will take his procession through to join the Moslems if he can. And he doesn’t want that, of course.’

  Why not? I thought; why on earth not? There could be no reason, except that Govindaswami did not want to give the Hindus and Moslems an opportunity to show in public a unity which the British told the world they did not have.

  Savage went on, ‘There are too many places where Surabhai can leave his authorized route and go barging through to the other route. Lanson’s police can’t guard them all in strength, especially as half of them are out in the back blocks dealing with a local messiah in Aslakheri, who’s persuaded the villagers that the landowner’s wife is a witch. I haven’t got enough men to do the job properly either. What I’m going to do is this …’

  He began to explain. All the battalion trucks would be out, with their canvas covers on and fastened down. In every truck there would be at least two men, but some trucks would be full of men. The plan was to station trucks near every likely corner and junction on both routes. Surabhai would not know which were full and which were, for practical purposes, empty. He would not know that the Gurkhas had orders not to shoot except to protect their own lives.

  Colonel Savage rolled up the map and said, ‘I’ll keep this until tomorrow.’ He was in a good humour and seemed to have forgotten all about Lanson and the investigation into Macaulay’s disappearance. He said, ‘I’m going to be hanging round with my advanced headquarters radio. Have you got anything else to do?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, ‘I’m going to work in the railway traffic office this afternoon. I have to get some information about several coal trains they’re going to run through now that the strike’s over.’

  He said, ‘Good.’ He looked at me and added, ‘You ought to have an enjoyable time whether it’s Taylor or Ranjit on duty—Miss Starkie.’ He went out.

  Major Dickson said, ‘What did he call you Miss Starkie for? You haven’t changed your name, have you?’

  Wearily I said, ‘No.’

  Dickson shook his head. He said, ‘I don’t understand the C.O. half the time either.’ As he moved to the door I turned to speak to him, to tell him that I knew his wife. But by the time Mrs Dickson came down I might be out of uniform again. And what would I have to talk about with Molly here in Bhowani, even if she did take the trouble to find out where I lived and invite me up for coffee? So I said nothing. Dickson saluted me—he always did that, and it always made me simper—and ambled out.

  I had lunch at home and afterwards bicycled slowly up the Pike toward the station. It was the first hot, still hour of the afternoon, when the Europeans were going to their beds to lie down after tiffin, or sitting at the table and smoking, and the Indians were dozing in the backs of their stores, and everyone was putting off the time when he would have to get back to work. There were few people about. I recited bitterly to myself:

  There was a young lady called Starkie

  Who had an affair with a darkie,

  The results of her sins

  Was an eightsome of twins—

  Two black and two white and four khaki.

  Savage, Savage, savage. Why? It must be his nature. And for whose sake had he really ordered that door kept open—mine or Macaulay’s? Savage, cruel and mysterious.

  I free-wheeled down the slope into the tunnel under the tracks. It was dark there and not as burning hot as in the sun. I saw a dim face, a man walking my way on the raised pedestrian footpath on the left of the road, looking back at me over his shoulder. When I came nearly abreast of him he turned, and I thought it was Ghanshyam. He said distinctly, ‘Stop. Your chain is off.’

  I stopped and slid my feet to the ground. It was Ghanshyam. He said aloud, ‘I will fix it, miss sahiba, I know all about bicycles.’ He stepped down to the roadway beside me. He squatted on his heels by the back wheel, while I held the bike upright and leaned over the saddle to see what he was doing. He jerked with his finger, and the chain came off. He said, ‘Ah, I thought so. Are the soldiers going to be out this afternoon?’

  I muttered, ‘Yes. Can you fix it?’

  He said, ‘In time, in time. Will they be at the corner where Blue Lane meets the Street of Suttees, near the station yard there?’

  I saw the map of the city in my mind, and Colonel Savage’s finger on it. ‘This one will be full, this one empty. Empty. Empty. Full. Empty.’ I said, ‘No. the truck will have only two soldiers in it. Won’t the chain go back on?’

  He said, ‘Don’t you bother, miss sahiba. You’ll get your hands dirty. There’s a lot of oil here. Two soldiers with rifles can stop a crowd without any.’

  I said, ‘They have orders not to fire. It’s no distance to the station here. I can wheel it.’

  He said, ‘There, it’s done,’ and stood up, his round face twisted into what ought to have been a beggar’s smile. He held his palm out. I fumbled in my bag, thinking that perhaps he could not really smile. The lips split his round, calm face and were shaped into the thing called a smile, but he was not smiling. I gave him a four-anna piece and got on to the bicycle. Colonel Savage would look a fine fool this evening for all his jokes about Miss Starkie.

  Patrick was on duty in the Traffic Office. He glanced up when I came in but quickly turned his head down, clearing his throat, and said nothing to me. I sat down at my table, collected my papers, and began to work. It was awkward trying to forget that Patrick was there. I felt a fool pretending he did not exist, and there were a couple of things about the work which I wanted to ask him.

  But there was work to do, and continual distraction outside. Jeeps and trucks came and went in the station yard below the windows, and the Collector’s Austin and the D.S.P.’s Chevrolet—I could tell them by the sound of their engines. I tried to guess what each coming and going meant. Then I heard Gurkhali, and the subadar-major’s unmistakable voice, and others I didn’t recognize.

  I hoped at first that I would be finished and gone before four o’clock. That was the time both processions were due to begin. I completed my work at a quarter to, but by then the time was so close that I wanted to see what happened, so I stayed in the office. I got up, walked over to the window, and stood there, looking down at the square. The Street of Suttees led out from it at the north-east corner. About fifty yards up, Blue Lane turned off to the left. I half expected to see Ghanshyam squatting in the yard pretending to be a beggar, or driving a tonga, but there was no sign of him.

  Patrick said, ‘I bet you wish you could join in your friends’ bloody procession, don’t you?’

  I did not answer him. The same old angry impatience rose in me again, but I forced it down and tried to think of Patrick as pathetic and unimportant.

  One by one the tongas clattered out of the yard. A young Sikh who ran a taxi service cranked up his old Buick tourer and drove away. The beggars shuffled and hopped and rolled themselves out of sight. A band struck up in the distance and I heard the shrieking of Indian music. I wondered who had got the processions started on time. Certainly not Mr Surabhai. Savage might have sent the jemadar adjutant to see that there was no hitch. It was the kind of thing he would be capable of.

  Patrick said, ‘You think that is the most wonderful music in the world now, don’t you?’

  An Army six-by-six Dodge rolled into the yard, its canvas battened down. It backed up to the station arch and stopped. Ten Gurkhas scrambled out through the narrow opening in the back of the canvas and slipped into the station. When they had gone I saw a face, an eye, and the muzzle of a Sten gun at the crack. I remembered—that truck was to unload a detachment at the station and then stay here, its armed driver beside it and the threatening face at the back slit. Not many people would know whether it was empty or full. Another six-by-six passed across the yard, drove up the Street of Suttees as far as Blue Lane, drew in, and stopped there.

  Savage arrived in his jeep, the radio jeep close behind him. The two jeeps backed up to the wall. Savage and Birkhe got out and stood looking up the Street of Suttees. The mu
sic wailed a little louder. It must have been unbearably hot inside the trucks with the canvas covers closed down and the sun pouring its heat on to them. It served them right.

  Govindaswami returned in his Austin. I leaned out of the window, expecting to see the D.S.P.’s Chevrolet. It wasn’t there. Perhaps he’d been hurriedly called to Aslakheri on the witch case. I felt sure suddenly that Ghanshyam had had a hand in that. Standing up there and looking down on them all, I got a fine comfortable feeling that Savage and Govindaswami and Lanson were the puppets now, dancing on strings that I recognized while they did not. They were fools. India was too strong for them.

  Savage, Birkhe, Govindaswami, and a head constable of police walked together up the Street of Suttees. I saw them turn into a house on the right, a little beyond Blue Lane. It was a tall house, six storeys high, built of old brick, with crumbling balconies, peeling yellow paint and iron grilles. It had a flat roof. In a couple of minutes the party appeared up there.

  The music went boom-boom-bom-boomty-bomty-bom. If there was a tune, I did not recognize it, and the rhythm was jumpy and eccentric.

  ‘Music!’ Patrick said. ‘It is more like cats caterwauling.’

  The head of the procession swung out of a side street a long way off, turned left into the Street of Suttees, and came directly on toward the station yard, its flags and banners swaying triumphantly. It was too far away yet for me to be sure of any faces except Mr Surabhai’s. I wished I had binoculars. Savage on the roof there had just lent his to Govindaswami. They were staring down. Govindaswami turned to peer along Blue Lane. Tee-BOOM. Boom. Bo-Bo-bo-bomty. TEE-boom.

  Patrick said, ‘I bet that black boy friend of yours is down there beating a big drum.’

  I gathered up my bag, stuffed some papers into the pocket of my shirt, and walked out of the office. In the corridor I began to hurry. Down the stairs I ran, faster and faster, and out through the arch and across the yard. A policeman shouted after me, but I did not stop. I knew thay’d be looking at me with the binoculars from up there on the roof.