Bhowani Junction (23 page)

I looked at him to see if he was beginning to fight at last. His tone told me nothing. But he was just melancholy. He went on, ‘I shall go to the guru tomorrow and ask him to receive me back into my religion. Will you come with me and be a Sikh?’

I wanted him to kiss me, but God was important too. I didn’t know God at all. No one had ever suggested that He was an Anglo-Indian. He must have been a Jew actually, though the padre didn’t often say so out loud. It was rather like no one except Sir Meredith Sullivan actually getting up in public and saying, ‘I am an Anglo-Indian.’ They’d made him a Sir for that. I didn’t really believe one word of what the padres said about God. The Virgin Mary made me wonder, every time I thought of her: Who was it,
really
? If I didn’t believe the padre, why shouldn’t I not believe the guru the same way, and all the time believe what I really believed?

I said, ‘I’ll become a Sikh—if you’ll promise to kiss me the day before, and promise to leave your mother’s house the day after.’

‘Where shall I go?’ he asked.

I said, ‘Find a house were we can live. We’re being married on July the first, aren’t we?’ He hadn’t answered about the kiss, so I added, ‘If you kiss me.’

I wondered if I meant ‘kiss’. It was awful to force myself on to him like this. I’d never done it before. I told myself that I had to find out whether he loved me, not just admired me. That was why I was forcing myself on him. I was being honest, that’s all.

It was true, but also I had listened to too much English gossip, read too many romantic stories of love in the East. Would he sit opposite me, his knees crossed, and draw me to him? Would he shine in jewels taken from some family vault, and would his body be pale golden and glistening with sweet-smelling ointments? It was a tale of the Arabian nights that I saw in my mind, of a man strong and beautiful and determined to have me. Then all would be well, and there would be no more curtains—if he was like that.

But—I found myself frowning fondly on him. As so often, I wanted to pat his head and tell him to cheer up. A couple of sentences I remembered from my first school reader fitted the feeling perfectly:
DO NOT SOB, BOB. BE A MAN, BOB
.

I am not sure how the rest of the morning and the early part of the afternoon passed. I only remember that it was peaceful inside the Sirdarnf’s house, and very still outside, and I couldn’t find the quarrelsome courage to go on any more just then about K. P. Roy. People never move about much on a hot-weather afternoon, but this was something different—eventually the stillness became an uneasiness that crept inside the quiet room where I was playing dominoes with Ranjit. The Sirdarni had been out when we got back from the river, and she did not come in until shortly before four. We ate at five, and at six I went home. I wanted to go alone, but the Sirdarni said that Ranjit would—must—go with me.

We saw no one on the way except a fat woman running, waddling like a duck, down a side alley. ‘You were right,’ Ranjit said. ‘Something is brewing.’

I said, ‘And your mother knows about it. That’s why she
made you come with me.’

Then on the Pike we met an old farmer with his wife and his two grown sons, all on a bullock cart, all heading toward the city. The farmer stopped us and asked whether what he had heard was true.

‘What have you heard?’ Ranjit asked.

He cried, ‘What!
You
haven’t heard? And you live in the city?’

‘I’ve heard nothing,’ Ranjit said.

The old man said, ‘There is no rioting, then? The soldiers are not out? I will be able to sell my vegetables to Kurrum Chand? The girl was not killed?’

‘There’s no rioting,’ Ranjit said, and then the old farmer told us what he had heard. The Moslems had risen and raped and murdered a little Hindu girl who had innocently thrown a cowpat at the mullah. He had all the details except exactly when it had happened—some time this morning was all he knew. ‘I don’t know why we tolerate those Moslems,’ he said, wagging his beard. ‘They are few, they live here on our sufference, and now look what they’ve done! I hear they fell on a procession of our Hindus the other day and slaughtered twenty. And then the Gurkhas came and killed twenty of them in revenge. Because the Gurkhas are Hindus. That was good. Did you see that?’

‘Nothing like that happened,’ Ranjit said wearily. ‘I don’t know about a girl being killed to-day, but there’s no rioting. You can go into the city.’

The old man’s old wife turned to examine me more closely in the sunless evening light as the bullocks leaned into the yoke. We got on to our bicycles, and Ranjit muttered, ‘Rumour, hate, fear. When will it end?’

‘When we’ve stopped trying to shield Ghanshyam, who is not K. P. Roy’s brother, but K. P. Roy himself,’ I said suddenly.

But Ranjit answered, ‘I can’t send my mother to jail,’ and my obsession of guilt, of going in a wrong direction, swelled a little larger in the bottom of my throat.

Ranjit left me at the edge of the Old Lines, and I went on alone to the house. Mater said supper was ready. I told her I’d eaten already. She did not complain that she had not been told; she was interested only in what I had eaten at that Indian-style meal. She asked me a score of questions about it and afterwards sighed and shuffled off to wash.

Almost at once I heard Patrick’s motor-bike and went quickly to my room. I didn’t want to see him then. As soon as the front door opened Rose Mary shouted, ‘Mater! Where are the bandages?’ I got up quickly, went into the hall, and asked what was the matter. Mater came out of her room in bedroom slippers and a dirty slip, her face and hands dripping water.

Patrick stood under the light in the hall, glaring at me, his chest rising and falling. A thin trickle of blood flowed down his forehead, down the left side of his nose, and into his mouth. His left eye was full of blood. There was a small jagged place on his forehead, high up near his hair. I felt a little sick and suddenly angry with everybody. I ran through Mater’s room and found the iodine and the bandages where they were always kept, on a high wooden shelf in the bathroom. Rose Mary knew that perfectly well, but she could do nothing but stand there, shaking and yelling, while Patrick’s hurt needed seeing to.

I hurried back into the hall and said, ‘Come into the parlour and sit down under the light, Patrick.’

Patrick put out his hand and pushed me away. He said, ‘I don’t want your hands on me. Rose Mary, you do it.’

Rose Mary took the bandages from me. I returned to my room. Now they had forgotten a basin of water and a sponge to wash the wound. I filled my own basin, took it through to the parlour, and held it while Rose Mary washed Patrick’s face.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked again.

‘Your friends in the city threw a stone at me, that’s all,’
Patrick said. ‘Hit me on the forehead. It might have gone in my eye, but a bloody lot you would have cared’

‘Go away,’ Rose Mary cried shrilly. ‘Can’t you see Patrick doesn’t want to talk to you? You have no shame, or you would be so ashamed of yourself you would cut your throat.’

But Patrick didn’t really want me to go. A rough bandage was round his head by then, and the blood no more than a dirty stain across his face. He wanted me to stay while he worked off against me his feelings of helplessness. I wanted to stay because he needed looking after and because I knew that nothing had changed, whatever he was doing with Rose Mary, or however desperate it made him to see me wearing a sari and going out with Ranjit.

He shouted, ‘Yes, you should cut your throat! They are meeting there in the city, your Wog friends, and throwing stones. You would have thrown one yourself if you had been there, I bet. They are getting ready to catch another of us and cut him open and castrate him. Do you know they did that to poor Mr Macaulay? What had he done to them, the dirty cowards? They are filthy, dirty savages, all of them—nothing else but savages!’

The basin shook in my hands. I wanted to tell him it was not
the
Indians who had mutilated Macaulay, it was only
one
Indian, a bad man called Roy. But Roy had arranged everything too well, and now another set of people in Bhowani were hot inside and clamouring for revenge. And Macaulay, whom everyone had disliked—especially Patrick—had become a martyr just because he wasn’t an Indian.

Patrick said, ‘And I bet Kasel, the lazy rotter—I bet he was there!’

I carried the basin out. The telephone rang in the hall, and I answered it. Colonel Savage was on the other end. He said, ‘Is Taylor there? I want to speak to him. When I’ve finished with him, I want to speak to you.’

I stood beside the telephone while Patrick spoke. When he put it down he turned to me with triumph glowing in his face. He looked like a victorious soldier in a war painting. He said, ‘At last! The A.F.I. is called out! Now we will show your
Wog friends what’s what.’

Then I took the telephone and listened and watched Patrick hurry out. He was a lieutenant in the Auxiliary Force, India, and the senior officer of the force in Bhowani. Now he’d go running around knocking on doors and routing out all the Anglo-Indian guards and drivers and telegraph operators and clerks who formed the A.F.I., and shouting to them to meet as soon as they could outside the rifle kote at the station.

Savage was saying, ‘Mrs Dickson is arriving on Two-Ninety Up Passenger from Delhi. It’s supposed to get in at nineteen forty. She’s coming earlier than we expected, and I’ve sent Henry Dickson down to Shahpur with about half the battalion on a scare. I want you to meet her and take her to her bungalow.’

I said, ‘Very good, sir.’

He said, ‘I’m sending a six-by-six down for you now, with a guard of four men, as the city looks like blowing up. I may be there myself, but don’t count on it. Has Taylor gone to get his circus fallen in?’

I said, ‘Yes, sir.’

He said, ‘All right. The truck’s on its way.’

I hung up. I thought of changing into a uniform sari but decided not to. Savage hadn’t told me anything about the reason for the A.F.I. being called out, except that mention of the city blowing up. He hadn’t told me anything about the scare that had made him send Dickson and all those men to Shahpur. Shahpur was at the southern limit of the district, fifty-four miles away.

The truck did not arrive for fifteen minutes. I waited outside for it, in the white sari with the blue border, which I had worn all day. It was dark then, and I saw men hurrying out of houses and along the lamplit roads toward the railway, or bicycling quickly in the direction of the Pike.

I knew those men in all their changes. I knew them as men in white shirts and khaki shorts who played an occasional game of tennis and drank beer in the bar, and trod on my toes at the dances. I knew them as railwaymen, when they were not so much people as symbolical figures, in white drill coats and
trousers, a green flag and a red flag furled together in one hand, or in their driving chothes, or in the ordinary suits they wore to the offices. And I knew them as they were now—all in khaki, with web belts, big boots, big topis, rifles—as men who, being white or claiming a drop of white blood, were members of the Delhi Deccan Railway Regiment, Auxiliary Force, India. The A.F.I. weren’t often called out, because they all had their vital duties on the railway. When they were, it was always in this kind of situation. They were a second line of ‘Europeans’ who could in emergency support the regulars of the British infantry when the Indians rioted among themselves or against the British.

I saw the six-by-six coming and noticed that two others followed it. Those two turned off into the Institute compound. I wondered if the A.F.I. were going to use the old armoured car. It had been made in the Loco Sheds at least twenty years before. The floodlights were on over the tennis courts—sometimes we used to stretch a canvas floor over them and dance there in the hot weather—and as I passed by in the front seat of the six-by-six I saw the garage doors open and a group of fellows, working under Patrick’s violent gesticulation, pushing out the armoured car.

When I reached the station I went to the Stationmaster’s office to ask whether Molly Dickson’s train would be on time. He told me it would be late, perhaps an hour late. It should be at Sona Peth now, but in fact it had just left Khusode. Khusode, Aslakheri, Malra, Dabgaon, Sithri, Sona Peth, Bargaon, Bhowani Junction—forty-eight miles, four furlongs. I went up to the Traffic Office to see what was happening in the city.

A junior clerk on duty there told me that Ranjit was expected to come in later. I went to the window and leaned out. There were the usual signs of trouble—no beggars, no tongas, no Sikh Buick—but there was no trouble. The streets were totally empty, and I heard no sound from the city, no band, no drum, no shout. The street lamps marched away in irregular line up the Street of Suttees. Someone was on the flat roof up there opposite the Blue Lane corner.

I heard the throb of a powerful motor engine. A backfire made me jump, and then the A.F.I. armoured car turned into the station yard. The two six-by-sixes followed it, stopped, and fifteen Gurkhas tumbled out. They stretched and began to light cigarettes. The armoured car stopped. It was fully battened down, its turret a smooth grey dome of steel and its machine gun pointing up the Street of Suttees.

Savage arrived in his jeep and drew up alongside the armoured car. He shouted, ‘Open up,’ but the crew inside probably couldn’t hear him. Nothing happened.

Savage grabbed Birkhe’s kukri and gave the car a tremendous bang with the back of it. The turret top opened slowly, and Patrick’s head came out.

‘Why have you locked yourselves in there like a family of sardines, Mr Taylor?’ Savage said in a distinct voice that carried up to my window.

Patrick saluted. A yard lamp showed every detail of his uniform from the waist up. The two brass stars winked on each shoulder, and his enormous pre-war-pattern topi was badly dented. He shouted down, ‘It is the order, sir, to close down the car when we are in action.’

Savage said, ‘Oh. Thank you for telling me.’

Patrick said, ‘It is nothing, Colonel. I say, what——?’

Savage went on. ‘But you’re not in action, Mr Taylor. You are standing by. Now get everyone out of that thing, and draw your revolvers from the kote. Who did you give the key to? Good. After that, come back here—but just sit around. Relax. Have you been wounded already?’ Patrick’s topi was perched on top of the big white bandage.

Patrick said, ‘I was hit by a stone in the city not long ago. The bloody Congress wallahs did it. But about leaving the armoured car, Colonel. We must be prepared at all times. I think we ought to stay here in it. It is my responsibility, you know.’

Savage said, ‘No, it’s not. I have given you an order, so the responsibility is now mine. What do you think the Gurkhas are here for except to give you warning and local protection? And for Christ’s sake store those dung-basket hats in the station
somewhere. You’re unlikely to get sunstroke at this time of night, and with them in the car there’s no room for you.’

‘But Colonel——’ Patrick began.

Savage said, ‘Mr Taylor, what I gave you just now was an order, not a basis for negotiation.’

He turned his back and came into the station. He had been amazingly polite, for him. I suppose he recognized that Patrick was doing his very best, as always. I watched while Patrick climbed out of the turret and sulkily ordered the other two men, Pelton and Ted Dunphy, to follow him.

Then Savage came into the room behind me. I turned to face him, and he said, ‘If you started wearing those winding sheets in order to shake off Mr Taylor, you’re a hell of a lot cleverer than you have a right to be, with your other armament.’ He came to the window and stood moodily beside me for a minute, then pulled out a cheroot and moved away to the other window near Patrick’s desk.

The station yard was like an empty black pool, the light shining here and there on it and dark shadows in the corners. The shape still crouched on the flat rooftop over there, waiting. People were waiting in all the houses, but nothing happened.

Savage suddenly told me a Hindu girl had been killed—no one knew how or when. So it was true after all. They’d found her body in a dry well in the city, with Arabic letters written in ink on her forehead that said, ‘There is one God.’

I still wanted to ask him exactly why the A.F.I. had been called out, and why he had sent half his battalion to Shahpur, but I was sure he would snub me if I did, so I held my tongue. The last time I had been alone in there with an officer of the Gurkhas it was Macaulay, and he’d been leaning over me in this same window.

Two young men, Indians, came walking together down the middle of Suttees toward the station. They entered the area of light and walked less hastily and began to talk to each other as they came on. They were ordinary young men in their early twenties, clerks perhaps, come here to catch the train. They must have hurried nervously through the deserted city and
now smiled and spoke to each other rather hilariously because they had reached safety.

Then they saw the armoured car and decided they’d like to go and have a look at it. They must have been over-excited with the sudden relief.

Patrick stepped forward into my view, his hand on the pistol in his webbing holster. The young men got nearer. Patrick shouted roughly in Hindustani, ‘Keep off!’

The young men stayed where they were, near the right front wheel of the armoured car. One said insolently, ‘Who are you to order me about? This is public taxpayers’ property. We paid for it.’

He was wrong there, as a matter of fact. The railway had made it and given it to the A.F.I. without charge.

Patrick drew his revolver and shouted, ‘You keep off, or I will shoot you!’ The bandage shone white round his head, and he stood in a heroic posture, his legs braced and his revolver arm steady.

I shouted, ‘Patrick, don’t be a fool!’

Savage leaned out of his window to shout too, and the Collector’s little Austin turned into the yard. Govindaswami had the habit of racing his engine before switching off. He drew up the other side of the armoured car and did not see Patrick behind it. Savage shouted, ‘Taylor! Put that pistol away!’ but the Austin engine was racing, and one of the young men put his hand on the heavy steel mudguard. Patrick fired.

The Indians jumped and began to run away across the yard, yelling. Patrick took aim at them, to fire again. Savage shouted, ‘Jesus Christ!’ grabbed the double inkwell off Patrick’s desk, held the lid tight shut, and threw it down. The solid glass hit Patrick on the back of the head, and he stumbled slowly forward and fell flat on his face, red and blue ink blending to form a huge purple pool on him and all round him.

Savage shouted down to Dunphy, ‘You—stand by that car but
do not shoot!
I’m coming down.’ He turned and ran out of the room. A pair of Gurkhas stepped from deep shadow at the near end of Suttees and held up their rifles, the bayonets fixed.
The running young Indians stopped, looked this way and that, gradually calmed down, and walked back toward the station arch. Govindaswami bent over Patrick, wetted his finger in the ‘blood’, lifted it to his nose, and sniffed, bewildered. Savage arrived, and Govindaswami stood up. The two stood talking in low tones, looking down on Patrick’s motionless body.