A Division of the Spoils

by Paul Scott

  *

  Susan was in the bathroom which meant I didn’t have to talk to her. I changed quickly into uniform and to avoid seeing anyone set off for the daftar without even washing the smell of horse off my hands. Momentarily I’d forgotten the reason for wanting to be early on duty, but recalled it when the tonga approached the spot where Barbie’s accident had been, the spot Clarissa Peplow once pointed out to me, where after careering down Club Road out of control the tonga had overturned, spilling them all into the ditch. From this point Barbie had walked, mud- and blood-stained, presumably refusing assistance from passers-by, making for the rectory bungalow into which she strode, calling for a spade and announcing that she had seen the Devil. The spade was for resurrecting Mabel. The devil was Ronald Merrick.

  Rose Cottage had been shut. Mother, Susan, the baby and ayah had gone down to Calcutta to join Fenny and me after our holiday in Darjeeling, a reunion intended to maintain the illusion that everything was well with everybody. In the family’s absence Mahmoud had discovered the trunk in the mali’s shed and complained about it to the man mother had asked to keep an eye on things – Kevin Coley. And Kevin had gone down to the rectory to ask Barbie to remove it.

  According to Clarissa, Barbie didn’t mind. When she went up to the cottage to collect the trunk she found a stranger there. Ronald. He’d come up to the Pankot hospital to have the artificial hand fitted and had called at the cottage to see us. According to Ronald he and Barbie sat and talked, mainly about her missionary friend, Edwina Crane, whom he’d known in Mayapore. She insisted on giving him the copy of the picture which she associated with Edwina. Then she asked him to supervise the loading and securing of the trunk in the back of the tonga. He said he’d advised her against it; it was too cumbersome, too heavy. But she wouldn’t listen. He said she struck him as over-excited, in fact, he said, ‘Exalted might be the better word.’

  It was quite a while before I talked to Ronald about his meeting with Barbie. He had left Pankot before we returned from Calcutta. At that time I’d only met him twice. I’d not liked him. But the real animosity came later when he began to turn up in Pankot on the excuse of visiting the hospital, but in fact it seemed to me to attach himself to us. I realized that he was a very lonely man in the ordinary sense of the word and without my realizing quite how it happened I found myself more often in his company than seemed explainable. At the pictures, for instance, or eating out at the Chinese restaurant when it was inconvenient to entertain him at home (when Susan wasn’t well, or had taken too much of her sedative). Going out with him when he was in Pankot, so far as I was concerned, was no more than a duty, one more duty to add to the many I’d got lumbered with or stupidly volunteered for and I assumed that this was understood by the family as a whole. What he assumed about it had been beyond me to work out. He knew I disliked him. Knowing he knew made me feel that we were all safe from him.

  When we went to the Chinese restaurant he always ordered a particular table, the one in the window on the first floor (officers only) which looked out on to the bazaar, and which at least provided him with the view to which my silences too often forced him to give attention. I never felt that my being poor company upset him. We were at the Chinese restaurant when I first asked him to describe in detail his meeting with Barbie. I didn’t tell him I’d just seen her, in the Samaritan in Ranpur, but I think he guessed. When he said, ‘She struck me as being over-excited when she set off, in fact exalted might be the better word,’ he studied me closely as if checking for the effect of that word exalted. The exaltation began (he said) when she opened the trunk to give him the picture and found a lace-shawl which she said didn’t belong to her but which she thought Mabel’s old servant Aziz must have put in the trunk when he temporarily had the key to it.

  I knew which lace he meant, lace which Mabel had been given by her first husband’s mother – lace like a web of butterflies, worked by a blind old French woman, some of which had been used for Susan’s baby’s christening, and some, years before, for my own. I had recognized it only a couple of days before at the Samaritan hospital, draped round Barbie’s head and shoulders, stained brown with dried blood.

  Ronald said, ‘She put it on when she got into the tonga, like a bridal veil.’

  The lace shawl, with its rusty stains, was among the packages that Nigel had been given by the Reverend Mother to hand over to me.

  *

  But of course there was nothing waiting for me at the daftar, nothing – Sergeant Baker told me – addressed to me in the overnight bag from Government House. I thought of ringing Nigel up but delayed doing so, finding an excuse not to do that until after five, because he would be busy, but in fact shirking it because the main reason for ringing him would be to tell him about Ronald and Susan and to try to coerce him into helping me to stop it; which seemed a bit unfair.

  I remember sitting at the typewriter in the daftar, cutting a stencil from a holograph order written out by Major Smalley, and using so much red-sealer to obliterate mistakes that the wax paper began to look like a piece of the lace shawl Barbie had worn, seated at her window. She had on that occasion seemed to have found peace, the peace of absorption in a wholly demanding God, a God of love and wrath who had no connection with the messianic principles of Christian forgiveness, and it was like that I preferred to remember her, not – as at other times when I had visited her – unanchored, unweighted, withershins, attempting to communicate with the doomed world of inquiry and compromise.

  When I was midway through the stencil the phone rang. The operator told me a Captain Rowan was on the line. It was as though I’d conjured him. I said, ‘Nigel? I’m afraid there was nothing in the bag. Is that why you’re ringing?’

  ‘Partly,’ he said. ‘Actually I brought the stuff up with me.’

  He explained the situation but I wasn’t being very bright and it took me some time to understand that he was in Pankot, that he’d travelled up on the overnight train, was staying at the Summer Residence guest house and in the last few minutes had spoken to my mother on the phone and been given my Area HQ number and extension.

  ‘Has she rung you at all?’ he asked.

  ‘No, yours is the first call I’ve had. Why?’

  He said, ‘In which case you probably won’t know Ronald Merrick’s here too. By chance I travelled up with him. He had our mutual friend Guy Perron in tow. Merrick’s with your parents now. He’s come to break some rather sad news to your father. A havildar from your father’s regiment who was in the Frei Hind force in Germany committed suicide the other day. Merrick thought your father might be very upset. He wanted to break the news to him himself.’

  ‘Yes. I see. I think he will be. Upset.’

  ‘Merrick’s now a half-colonel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s been promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel. Did you know?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, Nigel. The other thing I didn’t know was that he might also become my brother-in-law. Father told me this morning. He wants to marry Susan. And Susan wants to marry him.’

  I may have got that wrong: the order in which things were said; but I plainly recollect then a very long silence. We were both trying to assimilate wholly unexpected bits of information: on my part, the poor havildar’s death, Ronald’s sudden and to me ominous presence in Pankot.

  ‘What do you think of him now that you’ve met him?’ I asked.

  ‘He wasn’t quite what I imagined.’

  ‘How long are you here for? I’d love to see you. Is today possible, or is HE in control?’

  ‘The Governor’s not here. There’s only a Mr Gopal. Actually your mother’s just asked me to have dinner at Rose Cottage tonight. I’d like that but I’m not sure whether I can make it. I’ve got a thing to do for HE. I’m free once I’ve done it but I’m not sure when that will be. Could you lunch here?’

  ‘You mean today?’

  ‘Yes. Come up as soon as you like.’

  I could do that now, I said; and did – leaving
the wounded stencil in the machine and looking in on Major Smalley to make the excuse that I was feeling off-colour but hoped to be back in the afternoon.

  *

  A man came down the steps as the tonga pulled up in front of the guest house. I hadn’t seen Nigel in mufti before and for a moment scarcely recognized him. A suit disguised some of the thinness which his uniform accentuated; he looked fitter, more relaxed, like a man released from some kind of duty which he’d found more and more difficult to do. We had never embraced. Just here, just now, an embrace would have seemed right, but we did as we’d done when parting in Ranpur; shook hands rather solemnly. He held my elbow as a token of support while we climbed the steps but at the top he let go. We went through to the rear verandah which had the view I knew best – across the lawns to the closed Summer Residence – although I couldn’t recall just when I’d last seen it.

  On a table between two white cane blue upholstered chairs were the several packages he’d brought up from the Samaritan. I thanked him but for the moment didn’t want to deal with them or even look at them. He ordered drinks, offered me a cigarette. While I smoked he told me something about the special job he had to do in Pankot. For the moment, at least until he’d had some word from Mr Gopal, he was more or less a prisoner at the guest house, since he might have to make himself available at any moment. He doubted, though, that this would be earlier than the following day.

  ‘So you might be able to come to dinner tonight?’

  ‘Yes, it’s very likely.’

  ‘And you might be here for a day or two at least?’

  ‘A day or two certainly.’

  The drinks came. While he dealt with the steward I settled back in the cane chair considering how in two days Nigel and I might effectively collaborate to stop a marriage I was sure ought to be stopped. He could talk to my father. I would talk to Susan. The main problem was that Ronald was in Pankot too. So far I’d hardly taken in that fact and now that I did so and had time to consider the excuse Ronald had found to come up from Delhi, the havildar’s death seemed like something he had invented to suit his own ends, so that then I began to wonder what it could be that Barbie’s death had been invented for. My mind was racing, but I could feel my body settling into a posture of embattled indolence and could hear a voice warning me: Don’t say too much. Go carefully.

  I’m trying to reproduce for you an occasion of awful disorientation. Failing probably. God knows how one could succeed.

  ‘Well when did all this happen?’ he asked. ‘Your sister and Ronald Merrick?’

  ‘I wish I knew. She’s never said anything to me. Not the slightest hint. But there it seems to be. According to father. I’ve not talked to Susan yet but father has. And apparently Ronald’s talked to him.’

  ‘Your sister is serious, then?’

  ‘So father believes.’

  ‘Does he approve?’

  ‘Let’s say he doesn’t know Ronald well enough not to.’

  ‘Nor well enough to give his consent immediately?’

  ‘The drawback is, consent’s not actually needed.’

  ‘No. Of course. So you have the impression it may be more or less fixed?’

  ‘If it is, I want to unfix it. I hoped you might help me.’

  He said nothing. But his expression was kind. I went on: ‘It’s a lot to ask. But if there’s anything you can do to help, I’d be very grateful.’

  He didn’t answer at once. Then he said it was difficult to see on what grounds he could. He didn’t know Susan at all. He and I had talked about Ronald only in general terms. He added, ‘Now that I’ve met him I can’t say he’s the kind of man I’d want to go out of my way to have much to do with. I suppose one has to assume some serious emotional involvement on your sister’s part. One’s instinct isn’t much to go on, if it comes to thinking of interfering.’

  ‘Is it only instinct, Nigel?’

  He thought for several moments and then said, ‘From the family’s point of view I’d be concerned mainly about the possibility – I don’t say probability – the possibility of his name cropping up in any future fuss the politicians make about officers suspected of exceeding their duty in nineteen forty-two. Of course, there’s no need even to anticipate a fuss. But if there is a fuss, Merrick might be involved. Not that that would make the slightest difference to Susan, I imagine. Assuming a fondness. Nor to the family. But that’s all I can offer – as a practical argument against. Perhaps your father should be warned. About the possibility.’

  ‘I’ve already warned him. But it didn’t have much effect because Ronald’s already discussed that aspect of things with him. I was hoping you might dot a few i’s and cross a few t’s.’

  He frowned, not at me but at his glass. He said, ‘Well there’s also the history of persecution, isn’t there, but you know more about that than I do. If it’s resumed, your sister could be hurt by it.’

  ‘I’ve told father about the persecution, but I think it just makes him feel sorry for the man. And Ronald naturally has been very frank about the effect the Manners case could have on his career. It’s part of his technique. What I meant was being able to tell father something I don’t know. But which you might know. Something on a confidential file, for instance? I may be wrong, but whenever we’ve talked about Ronald you’ve always left me with the idea that you know far more than could be expected of a man who’d never met him. So. A file?’

  After a while Nigel said, ‘I should think all a file would tell you about Colonel Merrick is that he left the comparative safety of the police for active service in the army and was decorated with the Distinguished Service Order, since when there has been a history of regular promotion, no doubt well-deserved.’

  ‘In which case there would be nothing much to fear from a political fuss later, would there, if the files show him as such a paragon?’

  Hearing the sharp edge to my voice I suddenly pictured what perhaps I looked like – a hard-bitten little memsahib interfering in other people’s lives to stop herself shrieking with the boredom and frustration of her own – or (and perhaps Nigel wondered about this too) trying to stop a marriage because she coveted the man for herself, in spite of all she had ever said to the contrary about her attitude to him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nigel, I shouldn’t try to involve you. It’s not your problem. I’d better ring home and tell them I won’t be back for lunch. Then I’ll go through this stuff of poor Barbie’s.’

  He accompanied me inside, showed me where a telephone was and a bedroom-bathroom suite that I could use, should I want to; in fact, he said, the phone could be switched through to the one in the bedroom if I preferred that. The steward could get the number. I said that might be best and went into the bedroom, sat on the bed, waiting. The phone rang. Mother was at the other end. She said, ‘Where are you?’ I told her.

  ‘Good,’ she said. Apparently she had rung the daftar and had been expecting me to arrive at any moment, “off-colour”. She had rung to tell me Nigel Rowan was in Pankot and that if he got in touch I should do my best to persuade him to accept the invitation to dinner at Rose Cottage. She added, ‘Presumably you know by now who else is here.’

  ‘Yes. Nigel told me. I’m sorry about the havildar. Is daddy very upset?’

  ‘Not too upset not to have invited Ronald Merrick to dinner this evening. I don’t want just a family dinner. I want Captain Rowan here too.’

  ‘He’ll come if he can.’

  ‘I want you to make sure he does. I must have another man at the table.’

  ‘If you want to make sure you’d better invite someone else. Nigel’s not definitely free. There’s always Edgar Drew.’

  ‘I said man, not boy. And a man of our own sort.’

  ‘Then ask Ronald to bring Guy Perron. I gather he’s brought him up to Pankot.’

  ‘So we’ve all gathered. We’ve all been having to admire the invisible feather in Colonel Merrick’s cap. Colonel! But you can hardly ask a colonel to bring his sergeant along
even if there was a chance of his agreeing to. Which in this case there isn’t. What a pity the ranks aren’t the other way round. I want Captain Rowan.’

  ‘I can’t promise.’

  ‘I’m asking you to do so. I’m saying that the least you can do for me is to guarantee he’ll be here.’

  ‘The least?’

  ‘The least. He sounds to me the most presentable man you’ve ever bothered to get to know. In the circumstances, in all the circumstances, I should prefer it if you brought him into the open and remembered that this isn’t Calcutta, but Pankot.’

  I said, very quietly, ‘Why do you want that, mother? So that Susan can take one look at him and decided he’s for her? I suppose that would solve everything from your point of view.’

  ‘Not quite everything,’ mother said. She put the phone down. A meaningless retort; the kind someone is stung into making out of sheer exasperation. I went into the bathroom so that I could calm down and stop shaking. I heard the telephone ringing again in the bedroom but before I could reach it – thinking it was mother calling back to apologize – it stopped, presumably because the call had been taken elsewhere. Going through into the living-room I found Nigel taking the receiver from the steward. I indicated that I would go out to the terrace and did so. The steward followed and asked if I would have another drink. While waiting for it I stood by the balustrade and smoked and then, remembering the packages on the table, decided I might as well look at some of them. The first and bulkiest (containing something solid, like a book, and something soft) was marked: In the Event of my Death: Dear Sarah.

  Inside I found the butterfly lace which I hastily put down. The solid object was a book of Emerson’s essays. I remembered her fondness for them. A quick flip through the pages showed that many of the passages were underlined. I read several of these but found them tiresome and self-righteous. I put the lace back in the wrapping and left the book on the table. The other package, an envelope, contained several smaller envelopes, variously marked: To Sarah: Not to be Opened Before My Death. Private and Personal: To Colonel Layton’s daughter. To the Girl who Visits me. To the Girl with the fair helmet of Hair. To Whom it Might Concern. To Gillian Waller from a Friend.