by Paul Scott
Bronowsky stopped, released Perron’s shoulder, leant for a moment on his stick. ‘I wonder – was the thing done in the old Thuggee way?’
‘Not unless the neck was broken and a grave already dug.’
‘Ah. I had forgotten that. But it was something else I had in mind – the many days the Thugs sometimes travelled with their chosen victims, to lull suspicion. Isn’t there a resemblance between this and the long period of preparation? And then it is said, isn’t it, that when it came to it they were mercifully quick. Compassionate, even.’
The fountains rose, changed colour, subsided and then murmured on. Bronowsky took Perron’s shoulder again and began to walk forward. ‘Perhaps it is there, in the compassion, that I have been hoping to see the real resemblance.’
VI
‘I hadn’t thought that we were to be quite so large a party,’ Mrs Peabody said.
She had to raise her voice because the platform was crowded and noisy even where the first-class coaches stood and where the usually sober British were being determinedly cheerful and jolly, seeing off and being seen off. Even Mrs Peabody was smiling so Perron wasn’t sure whether she was making a comment or a complaint.
‘I expect we’ll all fit in easily enough,’ he shouted back. Mrs Peabody was thin, but tall, so tall that her greatest problem looked like being lack of head-space rather than of elbowroom. Peabody was the same height and not much better fleshed. It would be like travelling with two bean poles. The Peabodys were, as people put it, ‘staying on’, but were going to do that in Rawalpindi. So much Perron had gathered. They had an immense amount of luggage whose stowing in the compartment Peabody was overseeing. It had already been going into the compartment when Perron and the party from palace and guest house arrived; and still was. It was a good thing that everyone else was travelling fairly light – as Mrs Grace had pointed out after greeting Mrs Peabody and discovering in answer to her question that, yes, all this stuff was going into the compartment because years and years of travelling in India had inspired no confidence in either Peabody, in the luggage vans, even on a daytime trip. For instance one would not, Mrs Peabody pointed out, like to have some of one’s things off-loaded by mistake at Premanagar.
After this exchange Mrs Grace had dissociated herself from the Peabodys and their luggage and engaged herself in conversation with Bronowsky and Ahmed while Sarah and Nigel helped Susan and ayah to keep Edward entertained. This had left Perron under an obligation to make himself pleasant to Mrs Peabody, but it was up-hill work. The Peabodys were working in unison, he inside, she out. Their joint efficiency suggested years of practice. Every few moments she broke off the exchange of small-talk to point a coolie at a piece of luggage, or if she didn’t break it off herself Peabody did by coming to the open compartment door and reminding her that such or such a piece ought to be stowed next.
‘Well I don’t know about fitting in easily,’ she said eventually, ‘but no doubt we shall manage, since there are only six of us.’
‘Eight,’ Perron said.
‘Dora,’ Peabody called from the carriage door. ‘We’d better have the guns now.’
‘There’s still the tiffin-box.’
‘I think the guns first, then the tiffin-box.’
‘As you wish, Reginald.’ She pointed a coolie at canvas-shrouded packages, long and thin enough to be Peabody guns.
‘Eight,’ she said, not having lost the thread. ‘How do you make eight?’
‘Eight and a half, actually, if you include both me and the little boy.’
‘Well naturally one includes you both.’
‘Right-o, Dora. Tiffin-box now.’
She pointed a coolie at the tiffin-box. It was a wooden box, of majestic proportions, presumably zinc-lined, with airholes on one side. Watching it go in Perron thought that at least none of them would starve if the train broke down and the Peabodys unbent sufficiently to share out.
‘I still make it only six and a half, unless Captain Rowan is coming to Ranpur instead of joining Laura in Gopalakand. But I think that would still make it only seven and a half. Not that mathematics were ever my strong point. Once the thermoses have gone in we can leave the field clear.’ She moved to the compartment door and shouted, ‘Reginald? I hope the upper berths are let down. They’ll need them to stow their few things.’
Perron joined Sarah and Nigel. ‘I have a feeling that at least two members of the departing raj aren’t going to leave without standing by their old rights. Or anyway making a fuss about Ahmed and ayah travelling in a first-class compartment.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Sarah said.
‘The Peabodys?’ Nigel asked. ‘They’d better start getting used to it. He’s making a contract with Pakistan for a couple of years. Actually I don’t blame him. He’s a brilliant military administrator.’
‘Brilliant and only a major? Or hasn’t he been quite pukka enough to make it to half-colonel?’
Rowan smiled. ‘Originally, no. And she’s half-Jewish and very anti-semitic. But she’s now the Honourable Dora.’
‘The Honourable Dora? What a terrible combination.’
‘She’s furious that it always gets omitted in newspapers. But it came rather late, when her father was made a law baron. It’s never got into the Indian lists.’
‘Shall I start stowing our luggage?’
‘You mean they’ve finished?’ Sarah asked.
Perron rounded up their own coolies and entered the compartment. It smelt of Peabody’s bay rum.
In these old first-class compartments there were no corridors. There was no need of them and one was better without them. Each compartment, coupé or four-berther, had its private lavatory. The compartments were broad enough and the berths long enough to suit the tallest man at full stretch and hold the combined luggage of four long-distance travellers. Normally the luggage could be piled up against what might be called the bulk-head between the sleeping compartment and the lavatory; and there was sufficient space down the centre between the two fixed lower benches to stow ice- and tiffin-boxes without restricting foot room.
But when Perron entered he saw that the Peabodys had commandeered all this space and more. Luggage was piled against the bulkhead, blocking the farther exit and coming within an inch or two of the door to the lavatory. He hoped that the exit at Ranpur was on the same side as the entrance at Mirat. Presumably the Peabodys knew. Stretching from the pile of bulkhead luggage was a line of trunks and cases down the centre of the compartment. Even some of the luggage-space provided by the lowered upper sleeping berths was taken up. He ordered his own party’s suitcases to be stowed above, and then remembered Merrick’s relics. Were they out on the platform? The answer was at once given – by the appearance in the doorway of a coolie holding one end of the black tin coffin, the battered old trunk, with the stencilled name, Lt.-Col. R. Merrick, DSO, still visible, still eloquent.
‘You’d better put it here,’ he said, indicating a place that would leave barely sufficient room for people to get from one side of the compartment to another. He hoped the carpet wouldn’t come too. But it did. It looked smaller, though. It had been doubled up and tied with string. He had it placed on top of the trunk.
He clambered out, and down on to the platform. The Peabodys were bidding farewell to an elderly servant who was placing garlands round their thin necks. He reported to Sarah. A warning whistle blew. She turned to Bronowsky who took off his rakish little panama hat. Beyond the first-class compartment area the platform had begun to seethe. Perron could hear the mournful voice of the man selling tea. Cha-ay Wall-ah, Garam cha-ay. Black hands stretched down from open third-class compartments grasping those stretched up to bid goodbye. A woman shrieked.
‘Goodbye, my dear,’ Bronowsky was saying to Sarah. ‘Don’t be too long before coming back.’ He bent to embrace her.
Perron clasped Nigel’s hand. ‘I’ll wire you,’ he said.
‘Do. I’ll be a better host in Gopalakand. Have a good journey.’
&
nbsp; A hand fell on Perron’s shoulder. Bronowsky’s. The one eye observed him. ‘Thank you for coming to Mirat. Here is a little token of your visit.’
He found himself presented with a little package. A book by the feel of it. Then Edward intervened.
‘Goodbye, Chief Minister. Thank you for letting us stay at the Nawab’s guest house, while daddy’s away.’
One by one they entered the compartment. Another blow on the whistle. Distantly the woman shrieked again.
‘Mrs Merrick, there is room for your tiffin basket on top of ours,’ Mrs Peabody said.
‘Please don’t worry,’ Susan replied. She sat at the far end of the compartment opposite Mrs Peabody, divorced from her by the black tin trunk and the folded carpet. On her lap she held a basket.
‘Has your ayah a compartment quite close?’
‘Oh, very close, Mrs Peabody. In fact here. Ayah will sit with me, in case I doze off and Edward needs attending to. It’s the best thing.’
After a moment Mrs Peabody said, ‘Reginald, let me sit at the other end. It is a little close here.’ They changed places.
‘Are you sure about that basket, Mrs Merrick?’ Peabody asked.
‘Absolutely sure, Major Peabody.’
Perron, at the doorway, received Edward from Dmitri’s arms. ‘I don’t want to sit down yet, Perron,’ the boy said. ‘I want to wave from this window.’
‘Okay, but let the troops on first.’
Mrs Grace came next. She looked at the compartment and then at the Peabodys and said, ‘Good Heavens, it looks as though we’re being delivered from Egypt,’ and went to sit next to Susan. Sarah kissed Nigel and came up next. She went down and round over the baggage and sat between Major and Mrs Peabody.
‘Ayah!’ Edward shouted. ‘Hurry up! You’re going to miss the train.’
Ahmed helped ayah up.
‘Come on, ayah,’ Mrs Grace said, and patted the seat next to her. ‘Baitho.’
The girl tried to take Edward with her but he resisted. So she went and sat, alert, on the edge of the green leather-upholstered bench. A pretty girl, Perron realized; this morning not covering her face with the edge of her saree. Ahmed came next. He seemed to have no luggage except a small canvas bag.
Another whistle-blow. Ahmed shut the door, turned, lifted Edward up to the open window.
‘Goodbye Dmitri!’ the child called. ‘Goodbye Uncle Nigel!’
Abruptly, the carriage began to glide away. Perron steadied himself against the piled Peabody luggage and bent, peering through the other windows to watch the unfolding tapestry of the departure from Mirat.
I remember (he has said) dark faces taking over from the white faces. I remember the woman who ran trying to keep up with the train.
‘Are you really sure about the basket, Mrs Merrick?’ Mrs Peabody said. ‘Couldn’t your ayah look after it?’
Susan didn’t reply this time. When Perron had climbed over the luggage and settled himself next to Mrs Peabody, Sarah whispered to him, ‘Try to get her to shut up about the basket. It’s the urn. Susan won’t let anyone else touch it.’
At a suitable moment, when Edward was shouting playfully at ayah, Perron passed the message on. Mrs Peabody opened her mouth, then shut it. Presently she opened her handbag and brought out a little lace handkerchief, moist with eau-de-cologne. She wiped it gently over her dry yellow skin.
They were sitting in this order:
On the bench that ended close to the one unencumbered door – first, Ahmed, then ayah, then Mrs Grace and Susan. The child used this side of the compartment as his roving territory. Opposite Susan sat Peabody, then Sarah, then Perron and Mrs Peabody. At Perron’s and Mrs Peabody’s end there was almost total luggage block, with Ahmed and ayah visible only from chest height. Ahmed got up and went into the lavatory. Perron heard Mrs Peabody draw in her breath and then slowly exhale. He had the impression that however badly she might need to she would now avoid going to the lavatory for the rest of the day, or get out at the only stop (Premanagar) whether she needed to or not, as a form of insurance against too great a desperation later. She remained tense throughout the few minutes Ahmed was absent, probably counting them, in order to work out whether he was urinating or doing something of a graver nature. When Ahmed came out she continued silent, and Perron began to feel that she was holding him responsible for everything, from the overcrowded compartment right down through the urn to the use of the lavatory by natives.
*
‘Bang!’ Edward shouted. After they had been going for about half-an-hour (and all, one by one, except Perron and the Peabodys had used the lavatory – Perron because he didn’t want to go badly enough to feel it worth his while fighting the way over that mound of luggage) Edward had found the perfect use for the piled trunks and cases. He shot them from behind this entrenchment until they were all dead. Except Mrs Peabody, who was resistant to imaginary bullets.
But the ‘Bang!’ obviously stirred thoughts. ‘Do you hunt, Mr Perron?’ she asked. These were not the first words she had spoken to him, simply the first she had volunteered.
Perron said he didn’t.
‘Do you shoot?’
‘No. I watched Ahmed hawking the other day.’
‘Who?’
‘Ahmed. Mr Kasim. Over there.’
‘Hawking?’
‘With a hawk.’
‘Oh. I see. Yes. Really? I don’t think I should care for that. It seems to me rather cruel to tame a wild creature. But I like a day out with hounds and a day out with the guns. We hope to get in a few days at Bharatpur before going on up to ’Pindi. You’ve been to Bharatpur, I suppose? Oh, you should. The jhils there are famous.’
She talked on for a while, about Bharatpur, about Kashmir, about the boundless number of places she and Reginald had been in India. ‘We’ve never been south though, except of course through it to Ooty. There’s some good going in Ooty. But the south always depresses me. I never think of it as India at all. We’re northern India people by temperament, I suppose. Tell me, what is your regiment?’
Perron admitted that he did not own a regiment and had never served in one except for a few months during the war as a private, after which he had transferred to Intelligence and then to Field Security.
‘But you were in India?’
‘For a while.’
‘In Field Security?’
‘Yes. With a man called Bob Chalmers.’
‘Chalmers. Chalmers. No, I’m afraid I don’t know that name.’
‘He’s now in pharmaceuticals in Bombay.’
‘Really. How interesting. He stayed on, then. Reggie was awfully tempted to go into pharmaceuticals himself, after all one of the few things we can do for this country now is help them fight the battle of disease.’
‘And poverty.’
She smiled. ‘I sometimes think the poverty is very exaggerated. Most of the Indians one knows could buy one up lock stock and barrel.’
‘There are the ones one doesn’t know.’
‘In the villages, Mr Perron, every peasant woman has her gold bangles. No, no. It is not the poverty. It is the disease. The superstition. The inertia.’
‘Bang!’ Edward said.
Perron died again.
And then so did the train. The luggage juddered from the vibration of the braking. Minnie grabbed the child. They all rocked to and fro for a moment and then steadied themselves. The train came to a halt.
*
‘Probably a cow on the line,’ Mrs Peabody said. ‘Reggie – see what you can see if you can manage to climb over that carpet.’
But Ahmed was already up. He lowered the window of the door and leant out.
‘I remember a cow on the line,’ Susan said in the dead silence. ‘Don’t you, Sarah?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘But where? All I remember is the train stopping and daddy saying just what Mrs Peabody just said. “Probably a cow on the line.” And there was. But where was it, Sarah?’
‘Bet
ween Ranpur and Delhi. Nineteen-thirty.’
‘Ranpur and Delhi. What lovely names. There’s so much poetry in Indian names. Ronnie used to say that. Where is your home at home, Mrs Peabody?’
‘We are in Northamptonshire. Just outside Norby.’
‘Norby. That’s what I mean. And mother says she’s found a house in Epsom. It sounds like an aperient.’
‘Major Peabody?’ Ahmed called out. ‘Would you please put up the windows and close the shutters on your side? Mrs Grace? Please? On yours?’
He was locking the compartment door. Now he pulled the window up and closed the wooden shutter.
‘What is it, Ahmed?’ Mrs Grace asked.
‘Oh, nothing much. Just some kind of silly nuisance. Mr Perron, please, on your side?’
‘What’s the chap say?’ Peabody asked.
‘He seems to want the windows closed and the shutters pulled down,’ Mrs Peabody said. ‘I can’t think why. It’s hot enough and there’s one fan not working.’
Peabody stood up. ‘What are you doing? Baking us alive or something?’
Ahmed was helping Mrs Grace to close windows and pull down shutters on the other side of the compartment. Perron started doing the same on the Peabody side.
‘What’s wrong, Ahmed?’ Sarah asked.
‘Just some silly people making a nuisance. Don’t worry.’
There was nothing to be seen through the windows except a vast hot dry eroded landscape. ‘Do you mind?’ Perron asked, leaning in behind Mrs Peabody and dealing with her window and shutter.
‘Yes I do. I do mind. For heaven’s sake!’
‘Just shut the windows please and pull down the shutters,’ Ahmed repeated. ‘Mrs Grace, I think ayah shouldn’t sit here. Let her get under the seat just for a while. Come, Minnie.’ He got hold of her and forced her gently to the floor. ‘Play hide and seek with chokrasahib. Come on, Edward. Look, ayah is hiding.’
