Golden Afternoon (17 page)

I remember stopping for lunch on that first day at the Dâk-bungalow at Karnal, where my father, having first done a careful reconnaissance of the garden to make sure there were no cats, pi-dogs or kites around, took Pozlo for a walk in the grounds, and where we all ate a picnic meal on the verandah in the sun-freckled shade of a bougainvillaea and an orange trumpet-flower that had climbed to roof level and then spilled over to make a bright, sweet-scented curtain. In those days, and perhaps in these, it stood back from the road in a compound so full of trees that one could only catch glimpses of the passing traffic. Among them, growing to one side of the bungalow, was a single date palm which, that morning, was full of gossiping parrots nibbling at the dates. Parrots are almost my favourite Indian bird — the ordinary large green parrots with a red and white ring about their necks which are, correctly speaking, parakeets and not parrots at all. I have always had a great fondness for these amiable and gregarious chatterers, possibly because I myself have always talked far too much. Parrots in flight shriek for joy, but once a flock of them have settled in a tree they chat to each other non-stop, and if you care to listen you will be convinced that they are gossiping together in confidential undertones that suggest that they are talking scandal. (‘My dear — did you
see
her! … There she was, making the most
shocking
advances to Nutee's husband, while poor Nutee was wearing her wings to the quills feeding those chicks — no wonder her own eggs are always addled!') Pozlo, our baby purple-headed parakeet, whom we let out to wander around the outside of his cage, though belonging to a different branch of the family, listened delightedly, and put in an occasional excited screech. Presumably they speak the same dialect.

Karnal is not far from Ambala, so we took our time over lunch and arrived at the Circuit House in the cool of the evening — to find it occupied, entirely illegally, by squatters in the form of the Commanding Officer of one of the units stationed in Ambala, complete with wife and a family that included at least two daughters in their late teens and, I rather think, a couple of schoolroom-age children as well. None of this lot were in the least pleased to see us, and the whole situation was deeply embarrassing. The authorities in Delhi, who had imagined the house to
be empty, had sent word to the caretaker that Sir Cecil and Lady Kaye and family would be arriving on Friday evening, and would require food and proper attention for a period of three days, and the caretaker (who had presumably come to some unofficial arrangement with the CO that allowed him to occupy the place without permission) had panicked and put off informing the illegal occupants of our arrival until the eleventh hour; presumably in the hope that in the interim we should be smitten with smallpox or cholera or involved in a fatal car crash and fail to turn up.

Unfortunately for him, no dire accident had befallen us, with the result that the CO and family hadn't had time to remove themselves hastily to the local Dâk-bungalow or some hotel, and were all
in situ
when we arrived. Luckily, the Circuit Houses were intended to put up such exotic birds-of-passage as Viceroys and Governors of Provinces with their gilded staffs, so there were plenty of spare rooms; the best were already occupied by the CO and his brood, who had not even had time to shift their personal belongings into the less attractive guest-rooms, and who made an embarrassing situation a good deal more embarrassing by being simply furious at our arrival and showing it all too plainly. Having established squatters' rights in this strictly VIP accommodation at the beginning of the cold weather season, and got away with it, they had begun to look on it as their rightful home, and, but for our unexpected arrival, their illegal occupation of it would never have been found out.

The CO (whose name is one of the few I have never forgotten — perhaps because his predicament embarrassed me far more than it embarrassed him!) was plainly torn between fury at being caught out, fear that Tacklow would report the matter to Delhi so that he would be hauled up before his superiors and given the rocket of a lifetime, and rage at having to feed and put up no fewer than four unwanted guests, and look as if he liked it. Well, he didn't, and it showed. He was too angry to make any serious attempt to hide it, or even to be polite. His wife was even angrier, for a reason that soon became plain. We could not have arrived at a worse moment.

One of the drawbacks to life in India is that it is impossible to keep a secret from one's servants, and through them half the bazaar invariably knows all that there is to know about one's private affairs. For instance, any bearer or
abdar
worth his salt will know exactly where and when his
Sahib is being posted next, several days before the Sahib himself hears of it.

According to the local gossips, the CO was on the verge of retirement and this was the family's last season in India. They would be packing up and leaving for good in the near future, and it was their earnest hope that before that happened one, if not both, of their two grown-up daughters would be engaged to be married. One daughter, at least, was plainly on the verge of getting engaged, and they had invited the young man, as well as three or four other young officers and a couple of girls, to dine at the Circuit House on the very next evening, prior to the whole party attending the last big special event of the season, a fancy-dress ball at the Club, at which everyone had been asked to come dressed as a pirate.

Quite apart from the fact that great hopes had been placed on the outcome of that particular fancy-dress ball, it must have been infuriating, both as a mother and as a hostess, to find four extra and most unwelcome guests unloaded upon her just before a carefully planned party. Particularly since two of them were girls of about the same age as her daughters, whom she would not only have to wine and dine, but take to the ball and provide partners for. It was a horrid predicament, and I couldn't help sympathizing with her, though I would have been a lot sorrier for her if she hadn't shown her annoyance so clearly.

Left to ourselves, we would have turned tail and made for the Dâk-bungalow and put up there instead, provided there were not too many travellers doing so already. But when Tacklow suggested this, the squatter and his wife refused to hear of it; insisting that there was
plenty
of room for all of us in the Circuit House, and if we did not mind taking ‘pot luck' they would be only too pleased to entertain us. They did not look in the least pleased. But our last few days in Delhi had been hectic ones, what with packing and farewell parties, and apart from that lunch-break at the Kurnal Dâk-bungalow, Mother had been driving since eight o'clock that morning and was (like all of us) feeling hot, dusty and tired. She had been looking forward to a peaceful weekend in that very pleasant and comfortably furnished Circuit House in which she and Tacklow had often stayed, during the years when he had been the Director of Central Intelligence and she had gone on tour with him. The thought of driving on instead to the Dâk-bungalow, and probably finding that it was already full and that we must move on and try the hotels (which in those days let their rooms for the season and seldom had more than one or two
rooms available for those who were just passing through) was a most unwelcome one. So although it was plain to her that the only thing that prevented our being requested to find rooms elsewhere was fear of the scandalous tale our servants and the staff of the Circuit House would be bound to spread through the bungalows and bazaars of Ambala, she accepted the offer at its face value, and we moved in.

A further complication on that first evening was Bill, who turned up at the Circuit House half an hour later, making a fifth unwanted guest at supper that evening; fortunately he had long ago been booked to attend the pirate dance with a group of friends. But the meal was hardly a cheerful one, and everyone turned in early.

I can't think why my parents did not refuse the invitation for us to join the pirate party. I can only suppose that they were too annoyed to feel inclined to make things any easier for the CO and his family. But it came a bit hard on us. The costumes were easy enough. Slacks and a shirt, a brightly coloured sash round the waist and another round the head, brass curtain-rings for earrings, and that was that. (See snapshot.) But apart from Bill we knew no one at the dance, and the two extra young men who had been invited at the eleventh hour to partner us had obviously only been available because no one else had asked them. All I remember about them is that they couldn't dance for toffee, and, after the first amateur attempt, faded into the crowd and were seen no more. Our reluctant hosts made no attempt to introduce us to anyone, so apart from a dance or two with friends of Bill's, we sat out most of the evening, sipping lukewarm squashes and staring moodily at the mob of strangers whooping it up on the ballroom floor.

However, Nemesis decided to avenge us, for on the following night, driving back late after dining with friends of my parents, we were startled to see something black and circular bounding wildly ahead of us down the white, empty, moonlit Mall. A moment later the Hudson crashed heavily down on one side, and we came to a grinding halt. The left-hand front wheel of the car had come off and hurtled into the blue.

We picked up a
tonga
, which took us to the nearest garage, and, leaving matters in their hands, we went back to the Circuit House, where the following morning we had to break it to our unfortunate hosts that they were going to have to put up with us for another two days. The squatters were naturally horrified, but they had to lump it. We really felt quite sorry for them by the time we were able to leave.

Our next stop was with friends who lived in an ancient fort on the outskirts of a little village lying a mile or two off the Grand Trunk Road. I have no recollection of how they came to be living there, but I still have a clear picture of the Grand Trunk as we drove along it in the brief Indian twilight, just before we turned off it … The sun has only just slipped below the horizon, and the quiet sky is darkening to a deep, duck-egg green streaked with high wisps of lemon and apricot clouds against which, in sharp black relief, are long, wavering lines of crows flying home to roost: thousands of them, cawing as they return from the croplands where they have been feeding all day, to the belts of shade trees that line the Grand Trunk or the mango topes on the outskirts of little towns and villages.

I couldn't possibly count the times that I have watched birds flying home to roost at dusk, but this particular evening is still the clearest in my memory, though I don't know why. Writing about it, I am seeing it again as though I was looking at it now.

We set off the next day in the cool of the morning, when all rural India wakes to the sound of the squeaking, creaking well-wheels, screaming flights of parrots and the cry of peacocks, to stop for several days with the Commissioner of Jullundar, Mr Sheepshanks — known to his many friends as ‘Sheeper'. I remember him taking us to see the Golden Temple at Amritsar, where he could have been an honorary Sikh, for the guardian of the temple treated him as a blood-brother. There are only two things I remember about this visit, the first being some advice that Sheeper gave Bill (who was returning north with us to rejoin his battery). It was a piece of advice that had proved, in the course of a long and distinguished career, to be invaluable.

According to Sheeper, all senior officers and VIPs feel it their duty to ask intelligent questions, and do so,
ad nauseam
. The thing to remember, said Sheeper, is that they don't really want to know the answer, they only wish to show an interest; all that is required is a prompt reply. ‘Ers' and ‘ums' were fatal to advancement, and he illustrated this with a tale of his younger days in Rawalpindi, when it had been his task to act as escort to no less a personage than the Governor of the Province on tour.

His Excellency, trundled round the station in a staff car, observed a large and obviously new structure (probably another cinema) in the course of construction, and asked what it was. Sheeper (who had no idea) instantly replied: ‘That, sir? Oh, that's the new town incinerator.' ‘Indeed?' said
His Excellency, satisfied. And let it go at that. Some years later Bill, recalling our stay in Jullundar, admitted that he had found Sheeper's advice most useful, and had used it frequently. ‘He was quite right,' said Bill, ‘they don't really want to know, and provided you give them a brisk answer they're perfectly happy. But if you don't know, and admit it, it's a black mark against you.'

Leaving Jullundar and Sheeper with regret, we drove on through the Salt ranges to the garrison town of Rawalpindi, where we spent a further few days in Flagstaff House as guests of the GOC. I have no idea who he was, but I do remember that Bill, who was stationed in ‘Pindi and so would be going no further, introduced us to his friends and fellow subalterns and that our stay there was very social.

Rawalpindi was a cantonment town and, in those days, a very pretty one; gay in the old meaning of that hijacked word, and set on the open, rock-strewn and for the most part treeless plains, within easy reach of the Himalayan foothills and the long, dusty highway that winds upwards to the hill-station of Murree and onward to the independent princely state of Kashmir. Its wide, straight, tree-shaded roads were flanked by whitewashed bungalows and boarding-houses, along with all the extras that went with the word ‘cantonments'. Barracks, parade and polo grounds, tennis courts, a golf course, churches and hospitals and a sprawling bazaar.

Our fellow guests were the Auchinlecks, who were friends of my parents, and though my memory retains no trace of my first meeting with that future Field Marshal, Lord Auchinleck — ‘the Auk' — I remember his pretty, flighty wife, Jessie, whom I mentally placed in the same age group as Mother because they obviously enjoyed each other's company and seemed to spend a lot of their time with their heads together alternately chatting in undertones or shrieking with laughter.