The Grandmothers (32 page)

When they at last reached Camp X, somewhere in the middle of India, and marched in their companies on to the parade ground - the maidan - half the camp was of new shiny huts, or sheds. In other words, Nissen huts, and white tents covered the rest of the ground. There was a race, everyone knew, though no one had told them, to get the huts up before the monsoon started. Under their feet as they marched or stood at ease was a powdery dark dust, that puffed up and fell in drifts. The smell, what was the smell, wood smoke and pungency and much else, and the soldiers sniffed and tasted the air, this dusty foreign air, while a sun like a brass band blared down on them.

In lines and in queues the men waited at Medical. Rashes and bad feet, eye infections, stomach disorders, coughs, these soldiers were more fit for an infirmary than for fighting, and James’s knee was up again, like a lump of uncooked dough, with a scar stretched across it. His feet were swollen.

A couple of hundred men were taken to hospitals in the region and the rest were told they would be given two weeks’ leave. If they had nowhere to go - and most would not - they would stay in camp and provision would be made for their relaxation. It seemed there were clubs and bars in town that were prepared to entertain Other Ranks. James was told he was among those invited to stay with a certain Colonel Cram and his wife, to recuperate. That is, he was in a category not bad enough for hospital, but not fit enough for drilling and exercising.

He and nine others were driven off to a big bungalow m a garden full of heavy dark trees that were spattered here and there with pink,

red and white flowers. The smell, the smell, what was it? - a heavy flower smell but the other, pungent, hanging in their nostrils like a reminder of their foreignness. Unknown birds emitted unfamiliar noises. In a garden a black man in a white shirt squatted doing something to a bush. This one had a twist of cloth on his head, but in Cape Town the gardeners in the young women’s gardens wore cast-off good clothes, and old canvas shoes.

Colonel Grant was Indian Army Retired, and a friend of the colonel in James’s regiment, and was now waiting for the war to let him go Home to England. The Grants’ war effort was to entertain soldiers needing a respite. The men did not know each other, though some faces were familiar because of the weeks on the ship. These were all soldiers. Other Ranks, and this was because of a decision by Colonel Grant, since it was always officers who were asked out. James who had been Other Ranks now in various places for two years, had ceased to notice that his way of speaking marked him apart. The sergeants had sometimes picked him out for sarcasm but there was something about how he took this attention that took the fun out of it for them. Here was this quiet, obedient young man, obviously straining to keep up, to hear what was said, to do his best, but not too painfully: James was not victim material. He did not notice now that he was the odd man among these ten soldiers but the Grants did. And he had brought books in his kitbag. The supper was at a long table, once used for formal and probably grand occasions, but now accommodating men not used to them. The food was English, heavy and plentiful.

Mrs Grant was gracious, she was trying hard. A large, red-faced woman, she was uncomfortable in her skin, for she was sweating, and kept holding her face up to the draughts of warm air - not cool but at least moving - from the punkahs. She had patches of dark under her arms, and her pleasant, or at least trying-to-please face smiled conscientiously as she made conversation.

‘And what part of Home do you come from?’

‘Bristol …’ in a strong West Country voice. ‘I’m a plumber by trade.’

‘How mee. How very useful. And do you - I’m afraid I didn’t get your name … ?’

Then it came to James, who sat preoccupied, apart from the others in spirit, which showed on his abstracted face that was frowning with the effort to be here, to be part of things, to behave well, ‘And you, forgive me for not remembering … where are you from?’

‘Near Reading. I was still at college when the war started.’

‘How nice. And what were you studying?’

‘Office management and secretarial.’

Here, Colonel Grant, who had exchanged glances with his wife, because of this more refined voice among the other rougher ones, said, ‘You’ll all have a full day tomorrow. The Medicals will be here early. We start things early here - because of the heat, you know …’

‘It doesn’t matter how early we start, you can never get the better of the heat,’ fretted Mrs Grant.

‘So, I suggest you all get your heads down early and tomorrow we’ll see’

‘I am sure you would all like some coffee?’ Mrs Grant said.

Now the men hung about, exchanging looks. James said he would like coffee, but Colonel Grant said, ‘Probably you’d prefer a good cup of tea. Yes, well, that’s easy. When you are in your billets just clap your hands and ask for char.’

The men were disposed in cottages in the gardens: except for two. One was James: he found that his name, down for a cottage, had been without explanation changed for a guest room in this house.

No explanation needed, when you thought about it, and now he did. He was uncomfortable, but consoled himself that his fellow house guest was an electrician from Bermondsey, who said he fancied a cup of tea if they didn’t mind and shot off into the dark towards the cottages. That left James, drinking coffee with the Grants, who told him to make himself at home, borrow what books he liked, and play the gramophone.

James lay on his bed in the dark, too hot between covers, and saw bats swoop past the window gauze. The smell, had there been a characteristic smell in Cape Town? He didn’t think so. Only the scent of Daphne’s skin and hair … and so he drifted off to sleep and if he woke and cried out there was no one there to hear.

Next morning a couple of young women in the uniform of some nurses’ voluntary service arrived to check them over. Again James’s knee was strapped. All ten soldiers sat about in the cottages with their feet in strong-smelling potions, all had their sore skins medicated: nil were on their way to recovery.

Now, a problem: nine men already half-mad with boredom, and here they were m this refined and subdued household and what they wanted was some fun - precisely, to get drunk.

But the Grants had thought of that. In the town was a club which would welcome them, and a short walk would take them there. Better wait until evening until it cools down a bit.

That left James, who didn’t want any club, other soldiers, distractions from his private thoughts. He wanted to sit on this verandah and watch the birds and think about Cape Town. That meant Daphne, but not exclusively. He was thinking, ‘Imagine, we could have been stationed there - couldn’t we? But instead we are here.’ The enormity of Chance, or Fate, preoccupied him, and he sat for hours, a book open on his knee, thinking so deeply that the Colonel’s approach was not noticed until the old man coughed and sat down.

‘I hope I am not disturbing you?’

‘No, no, - of course not, sir.’

On James’s knee was Kipling’s Collected Verses. Kipling had not been offered in the summer schools of that year which now seemed so long ago. Kipling! What would Donald have said?

The bookshelves of the Grants’ living room were full of red leather volumes tooled in gold - and many of them were Kipling.

The Colonel leaned forward, took in the title, leaned back. He said, ‘A good lad, Kipling. Though he’s out of favour now.’

I haven’t read him before, sir.’

‘I’d be interested to hear what you make of it. Your generation … you see things differently.’

Outside this bungalow, beyond the tree-shaded garden, on the dusty road, groups of Indians went past in their many colours.

‘What’s that bird, sir?’

‘Crows. Indian crows. Not like ours, are they?’

‘They sound as if they’ve got sore throats. Like mine.’

The Colonel laughed: clearly, he was relieved to laugh. James’s pale intensity disturbed him.

‘We’ve got all kinds of germs. It’s the dust. Filthy. But you’ll get immune, with luck,’

‘And do you get immune to the heat, sir?’

The Colonel looked at the patches of dressing on James’s arms and legs, below the uniform shorts; he knew there were more dressings, where they were invisible. The redness on James’s neck was prickly heat. ‘No, you don’t get used to that, I’m afraid.’ A pause. ‘I’m afraid my wife takes it hard, after all these years. She spends as much time as she can in the hills but at the moment she wants to do her bit, so she’s here, and she’s not made for it. You must have noticed.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And where are your comrades?’

‘They’re exploring the town.’

‘Poor lads, not much for them to do.’

‘We’re all pleased to be off the ship, sir.’

‘Yes, I heard you had a bad time.’

He got up, nodded, and went off. But he took to dropping in to join James on the verandah, for chats that were brief, but as James saw, not without purpose.

‘Didn’t they offer you a commission?’

‘Yes, I turned it down. Now, I wonder why?’

‘You might have had things a bit easier.’

‘I thought so on the troopship, yes.’

Yes:

And another time, looking at the red volume on James’s knee.

The tumult and the shouting dies,

The Captains - and the Kings depart.

‘They don’t seem to be departing, sir. Far front it..’

‘That’s what they want us to do. The Indians. Depart. You might have noticed.’

James had now been in India for a week and he had not done more than glance at a newspaper.

‘Riots.’ Free India. “India for the lndians. “The British Tyranny.’

Months of socialist indoctrination, which of course had to include ‘Free India’, had slid off James. He thought, Well, India for the Indians: that makes sense.

‘The lot before you. The previous regiment. They’ve gone to Burma.’

‘Yes, we know.’

‘Before they left they were suppressing riots in … pretty close to here. They put down quite a nasty spot of bother. What do you think about that?’

James thought that if you were a soldier you did what you were told, bad luck.

‘Mine is not to reason why, sir.’

The Colonel laughed. ‘Very wise!’

‘Are we going to Burma, sir?’ James dared.

‘I don’t know. No, I really don’t.’

‘And if you did you wouldn’t tell me.’

‘And if I did I couldn’t tell you. But as you know, the Japs are threatening to invade India and free it from our tyranny. And they’re getting closer all the time.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘And some troops will be kept here, in case of that.’

‘I see.’

‘Yes, it looks like that.’

And another conversation, towards the end of that visit, which James was hardly to remember later, so little impression did it make on him, compared with the vividness of Cape Town.

The Colonel had come on to the verandah, his boots loud on the wooden floor, and he stood looking at the soldier, who was lost to the present and staring, his mouth a little open.

‘James …’

James did hear, after a pause, then smiled, stood as the Colonel sat down. He sat down again himself.

The Colonel said, ‘You know, this isn’t an easy country for some of us - well, some do seem to flourish like the green bay tree. Not many. It takes it out of you.’ Now he hesitated, trying to think of the right thing to say. He shifted his lengthy legs about in the cream linen trousers which had a shine on them from someone’s iron. With one thin sunburned hand he rubbed his chin, while he stared thoughtfully, not at James, but into the garden.

‘Are you sleeping - may I ask?’

‘Not too well. It is so hot.’

‘Yes, it is, things’ll get better when the monsoon conies. Not long now.’

‘The monsoon, everyone talks about it as if it’s some kind of magic wand.’

‘Well, it is. Yes, that’s what it is. James - if I’m talking out of turn, then forget it. But I want to say, you mustn’t take things too hard. Bad idea anywhere, but in this country … it tips people over the edge, India does, if you don’t get a grip of yourself. We aren’t made for this climate. It does us in. I’ve seen it … I’ve been here forty years. Too long. I’d be home now if it wasn’t for the war.’

If James had taken this in, it didn’t show on his face; he didn’t move, or look at the Colonel.

‘Think about what I’m saying, will you? Try and take things a little easier.’

‘Yes, sir. Yes … it’s that ship, you see. I don’t think you can have any idea …’ One does not say to an old man that he hasn’t an idea, not about anything. ‘I mean … I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean …’And then, angry, white-faced: ‘It was terrible. It was . , .’ And he brought two clenched fists frustrated ly down on his chair arms. His book fell, and the Colonel picked it up, sat turning pages. He read aloud:

‘Cities and Thrones and Powers Stand in Time’s eye,

Almost as Ą0II$ as flowers,

Which daily die:

But, as new buds put forth

To glad new men,

Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth

The Cities rise again.

I often recite that to myself when things get rough.’ ‘Yes, sir.’

‘A sense of proportion, one must keep that.’ ‘Yes, sir,’

‘And you do forget, you know, one does forget.’

‘I will never forget, sir, never, never;

‘I see. I’m sorry’ And the Colonel moved off.

On the day the cars came to take the Grants’ guests back to their camp, the air seemed full of rubbish. A wind was busy in the trees, whirling leaves and even small branches out into the roads where people scurried into doorways and holes in a jumble of shops and little houses, and shopkeepers struggled to put up their shutters to save their goods being whisked into the air. Mouths were dry. Eyes stung from the dust.

The cars passed a platoon, accompanied by their corporal, returning from some jaunt associated with the two weeks’ leave. Their eyes were screwed up, their mouths clenched tight, against the sun and the dust. This made them look indignant. Ten expostulating men with the dirt running off them as they marched, and the dust in clouds as high as their knees. The two cars passing raised the dust even more and looking back, the passengers saw a ghostly platoon vanish in a dirty cloud.