'Oh Christ, I mustn't be such a bad b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' I told myself as I bent over the bianco, in a sudden reversion to childhood patterns of thought induced by the letters I had rammed guiltily into my pocket.

'Whatever would Mum think of me? I mustn't go out on the bash tonight, I really mustn't....'

The dreaded Rusk slouched by, with his mate Locke, a villainous fellow with broken brown teeth, heading for the cookhouse.

'Going to dish up some more soya-links, Rusk?' I called.

'Bull-s.h.i.tting again, Stubbs? After getting them stripes back again, then? You want to get some service in first, don't he, George?'

'I suppose you'll be down the cinema getting a basinful of Betty Grable tonight, Stubby?' Locke called.

They were still dragging towards the cookhouse, not looking back as they spoke.

'You know what you can do with Betty Grable, Locke!'

'After you with Betty Grable!'

'You lads can have her. I'm off out on the nest myself, this evening.'

That did make Rusk look back. 'Dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' he called approvingly.

Why did I, I asked myself, why did I have to try and impress horrible s.h.i.ts like the cooks? There was a weak and wicked streak in my nature. Supposing I caught a dose of the pox this evening? That meant the old Umbrella Treatment, terrifying accounts of which circulated in the Mendips. And they stamped the word 'Syphilis' on your discharge papers, so that all future employers were warned about you, or so Aylmer claimed. Still, I had a long while left to serve - I could not expect to hang on to my virginity for seven-and-five, could I?

And it was not just a good s.h.a.g I needed. It was romance. It was, as I once heard an old soldier poetically express it, getting to know the heart of a country through the eye in your k.n.o.b. The unknown She' - that was what I wanted; an insight into the whole strange alluring-repugnant charge of India.

That face came back to me, staring at me through iron bars. The burning body, the twot like sucked marzipan, the dark melting eyes, the straight nose, the small mouth, the expression - of what? Of longing?

Somewhere there must be a woman whose longings corresponded to mine. Perhaps she could be found, that unknown She, even within the confines of a knocking shop.

With similar hopeful thoughts, accompanied by a slight stirring in the trousers in the region of my field-dressing pocket, I trooped down to the M/T section at 1930 hours.

Di Jones was already there. The area was deserted, the offices and garages all closed, the five-tonners standing in an immaculate line, s.p.a.ced equidistant apart on the concrete -except for one lorry, which had its engine running. A small sandy-haired Scot, whom I knew as Jock McGuffie, was angrily polishing up its headlights with a cloth and carrying en a monologue which my arrival did not deflect in any way.

'Well, I see you're all togged up, Stubby-lad!' exclaimed Di, patting me jovially on the shoulder. 'It's really snazzy you look!'

'-so anyhow, I said to him, "Look, Corporal f.u.c.king Warren," I said, "when I'm off duty, I'm off duty, whether you may happen to like it or not, and what I do when I'm off duty happens to be my own f.u.c.king business", I told him. He looked at me as if he was fair fit to explode! "See these f.u.c.king tapes", he says, pointing to his stripes, "What do you think they are, birds.h.i.t?" he says. "Any more lip from you,"

he says, "and I'll have you up at the company duftah so b.l.o.o.d.y fast your feet won't touch," he says. Aye, he was fair flaming mad! So I says to him, "Oh, we'll see about that," I says. "It's no good you pulling your rank at me," I says. "I've been on the mat more times than you've had NAAFI suppers, and if you think I'm whitewashing f.u.c.king stones at four-thirty in the afternoon for you," I says, "then you've got another think coming!" I told him.'

While this monologue and more was in progress, and the lights of the vehicle were gleaming ever more brightly, I was standing about with some embarra.s.sment. Di was listening in a relaxed way. I grew impatient, wishing he would introduce me to McGuffie, to whom I had never spoken; but in the ranks all are reckoned to be buddies, and there are no introductions. The annoying thing was that this buddy seemed not to have noticed me.

Eventually, Jock interrupted his own monologue, with a grudging 'Och, we'd better be on the move if we're going to move!', and we climbed up into the cab with him.

It appeared that he had had an extensive argument with the unlucky Corporal f.u.c.king Warren, triumphing in point after conversational point. Between his verbatim reports on this, he informed us that we were going to Indore, officially to deliver something he called Furniture, office, desk one, clerks for the use of.

'We'll have a bit of a booze, Di, and then drop in on this knocking shop, okay? So this other bloke comes up and just stands there sort of looking like, so I puts my brush down and I says to him, "And what are you f.u.c.king staring at, mate?" I asks. "Have you no' seen a man on f.u.c.king jankers before?" So he gets all nasty then. "I've done more jankers than you've seen pay-parades," he says. "Then you can do my f.u.c.king jankers for me," I tells him, "if you're so f.u.c.king keen!"...'

I rolled the window down and we moved through the barrier at the gate, where McGuffie had shown his pa.s.s without breaking the flow of his discourse. All about us was India, as ever tangible as a warm breath on the cheek, its electric forces such that the voluptuous evening sky flickered constantly. What a mystery! And somewhere ahead, in some filthy dodgey little building was a young girl - sold into prost.i.tution by her impoverished parents - who would recognize me and come lovingly into my arms. If the eloquent McGuffie did this run regularly, I could visit her regularly. How much could I afford a week out of my beggarly pay?

Di nudged me. 'Wake up, Stubby! Jock's asking you if you're much of a boozer?'

I'm looking forward to getting at the bibis,' I told him.

'Are you now? Well, we're going to have a wee drink first, if it's all the same to you, seeing as this is my excursion!'

'Good.' I had to make myself agreeable. 'I could do with a beer.'

'Gould you now? You'll no* be buying the first round, I suppose?'

'Thik-hai. I don't mind buying the first round.1 'Och, well, you may have t' buy all the f.u.c.king rounds, laddie, for I haven' an anna till pay-day!' Struck by the humour of this, McGuffie roared with laughter and we nearly ran down a couple of Wogs by the roadside. Fortunately, they were young and agile. Di also was laughing, which seemed unnecessary.

'How are you going to pay for your bibi, then?' I asked.

'Oh, they'll let old Jock McGuffie in for free - he's only got a wee one!' He and Di Jones bellowed with laughter again. This time I joined in too; any man who could make jokes about the smallness of his tool was obviously a real humourist.

'Indeed, the terrible fellow has a weapon on him like a cuc.u.mber,' Di said, still laughing.

'How much do you reckon they'll charge, Di?' I asked. 'Will it be more than five chips ?'

'Will you stop worrying, sonny? Och, with the three of us going in together, they'll let us have it wholesale!' More laughter.

Through the window, the lights of Indore shone ahead: dull, sullen, guttering lights, just as I had hoped.

We b.u.mped through the ghastly outskirts, where a small market was being held. Figures were everywhere, adults interwoven with fast-moving lads; faces with bright eyes, lit by solitary, oil-lamps, to be distinguished, behind counters or piles of fruit. As always, there was music and stink - the basic senses were never segregated in United Provinces. I hung out of the window, intoxicated by it all. There were cows ambling about the paths or jostling between stalls, ancestral motorcars trundling beside us, and men in topees, though starlight was upon us. We pa.s.sed an enormous factory - 'Cotton,' Di Jones said, wisely - and I glimpsed dozens of men parading under a corrugated-iron roof, picked out by floodlights. Then we were moving between blocks of flats, and could see how they teemed with life on every storey. What sort of incredible life could go on in there?! As if asking themselves the same question, huge pink faces of film stars glared down at us from above a cinema, their features picked out in green and mauve. With a shock, I recognized they were intended to be Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake, viewed through the distorting waters of Hindu culture.

It was impossible to decide where the centre of an Indian town was. There was no centre. We stopped at a non-Centre and were instantly surrounded by beggars. Jock McGuffie jumped to the ground.

Tuck off out of here, you ragged-a.r.s.ed heathens! Get f.u.c.king weaving the lot o' ye, before I get a machine-gun to you and do for you once for all!'

We climbed down, and I asked (Oh G.o.d, we were nearly there!) nervously, 'Are you going to deliver the office desk, Jock?'

'Deliver the office desk? Eh, Di, you've got a right one here and no mistake! Deliver the office desk, is it? Look, sonny, I'm no' delivering any f.u.c.king desk for you nor anybody in my free time, I'm telling you!

I stop work at four, sharp, I do, war or no war, sonny boy, and that's your lot-'

'Okay, okay, I just thought that's why we came to Indore-'

'Did you, now? Well, it wasna what I came to Indore for, I can tell you that for free, eh, Di?'

'I came for a beer,' Di said, adding, 'Stubby's a good old boy-o, it's just he didn't grasp like that the desk was what you might call an official pretext.'

'That b.l.o.o.d.y desk stays in my gharri until I say otherwise,' Jock said savagely. He grabbed one of the Indians standing about and told him to guard the lorry until we returned. The chap was very dark and shining, with yellow eyes, and sores all down one leg. He smiled tolerantly.

'How much you give me, sahib?'

'We'll give you five rupees between us, Johnny, thik-hai? Five rupees, paunch rupee. Malum? You guard it proper, Johnny. What's your name?'

'Ali, sahib.'

'Och, you're all called f.u.c.king Ali! No' a f.u.c.king Donald among you! Can't you think of any other b.a.s.t.a.r.ding name to call yourselves but Ali? What's your other name? Turn-hara nahm kia hat?'

'Baraf, sahib.' The man giggled, and the crowd giggled in sympathy. Jock silenced them with a look.

'Not a f.u.c.king MacPherson among the b.l.o.o.d.y lot! Thik-hai, Ali b.u.g.g.e.r-Off, you guard my gharri till I get back, malum? And if anybody so much as lays a finger on it, I'll have your guts for garters, okay?'

We walked off, leaving Ali Baraf in charge.

Di looked thoughtful. "Five chips is a lot of moolah, Jock, man.'

Jock stared at him incredulously. 'A lot of moolah, is it? You don't think we're going to pay the puir wee b.a.s.t.a.r.d, do you, 'cos if so you've got another think coming!'

'You should keep your word to the lower races or they will never respect you.'

Jock threw back his head and laughed. 'You f.u.c.king ignorant Welsh git, you! Don't tell me that puir wee b.a.s.t.a.r.d expects to get paid! - He's guarding that truck for the privilege of it, nothing more. He knows as well as I do that if he makes a fuss when we get back, I'll kick his a.r.s.e right out of his f.u.c.king dhoti!'

The state of Indore was one of the Princely States; in some of the more independent ones, like Hyderabad, the Army was almost entirely banned; here, it was allowed only on sufferance, and we saw few troops. Bold as bra.s.s, we marched up the middle of the crowded street, calling and laughing - much like the people round us, only they were less pugnacious about it.

Trees grew on either side of the road. Goats were tied to many of them, nibbling at the bark so vigorously that it was a wonder the trees survived. Trams clattered by, packed with people, decked with people, sending their blue sparks among the leaves of the trees. Insects b.u.mped about the hanging street-lights, to splash at our feet. Beggars with heroic deformities lay juddering in the gutter, men peed against walls, hawkers shouted their wares. The universe was crammed with life, bursting from the foetid loins of Brahma.

'Dirty b.u.g.g.e.rs! It's worse than Sauchiehall Street on a fine Sat.u.r.day - ye canna hear yourself speak!'

'Cardiff was never like this!'

A man ran up and tried to sell us a carpet. Jock dismissed him and turned down a side street. It was darker here, and more barbarous. A hotel stood on one side, a balcony above its main door.

'We'll sit up there!' Jock said, pointing.

'Looks pretty full,' I said. The balcony was crowded with black faces.

'They'll make room for us. I know the proprietor. I've been here before. Just you let old Jock take care of you.'

So we barged in, into a crowded and shabby little dining-room. Jock started roaring for service and the manager came up. He was huge and ungainly and wore a light blue Western-style suit. His crumpled brown face lit with delight at the sight of Jock.

'So, you escape from the detention again, Mr. Jock!'

'Och, then, you're still here, you f.u.c.king robber! They haven't cut your throat yet! Have you chucked out that dirty manky beer you poisoned me with last time I came?'

'We keep some special beer to finish you up this time.'

'Getting your own back on the British Raj, eh?'

'Yes, yes, ha ha, I get my own back on the British Raj! I kill all men with the filthy Indian beer!'

'Kill the officers first, that's all I ask.'

'We kill the officers first and the Scotchmen last.'

Jock roared with laughter, and he and the proprietor clumped upstairs, patting each other on the back - quite a feat, since Jock was almost a yard smaller than the Indian. Di and I followed.

'Get a few beers inside us, Stubby,' Di said. 'Then we'll tackle these bibis. Don't be impatient. Get yourself fortified properly.'

'I need a woman.'

Jock heard my remark. To his Indian friend he said, 'Our young Sa.s.senach pal here, he's fair desperate to get the dirty water off his chest! Are you selling your daughter again tonight?'

'Yes, yes, I sell my daughter. Very much recommend.'

'You tried her out last night yourself, eh, you old sod, you! Bring us some beer first - and this time, don't f.u.c.king p.i.s.s in it in the kitchen, eh?'

'No, no, tonight I not p.i.s.s in the beer! Next time you come I do it.'

'You try it and you'll get a bunch of fives right in your clock!'

Laughing, he showed us on to the balcony - crowded, as I had observed from the street, mainly with portly Indians eating snacks or drinking local hooch. The proprietor went over to one table and, with a mult.i.tude of gesture, persuaded the four men sitting at it to leave. They rose reluctantly, frowning in our direction.

'Don't you pull your b.l.o.o.d.y faces at me!' Jock exclaimed. 'Come on, speed it up, jao, we haven't got pur own back for the Black Hole of Calcutta yet, and don't you pack of babus forget it!'

'Seems a bit hard when they're enjoying their evening,' Di said.

'A bit Hard? Are you out your f.u.c.king mind, Di? These b.a.s.t.a.r.ds sit here getting fat drinking their b.a.s.t.a.r.d todi, and if it wasna for the British they be kissing some fat j.a.panese a.r.s.e by now, wouldn't they? They should be f.u.c.king grateful. Away with you, you miserable foreign gits!'

We sat down. A waiter rushed to bring bottles of beer, sloshing the liquid quickly into three gla.s.ses.

'Ahh! Gnat's p.i.s.s!' exclaimed Jock, drinking deep. 'More beer, you slack b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Keep it coming!

Dinne stop till you see it spurt from my ears!'

An hour later, we were still there drinking. It was pleasant on the balcony. The mosquitoes were not biting too much and the beer - despite my haunting suspicion that the proprietor had surely p.i.s.sed in it - was tolerable. Jock had quietened down now that all his wants were being attended to and was telling us some unlikely stories; Di and I had to do no more than supply a sort of chorus.

The next time Jock called for another round, I said, 'No more for me, Jock. There are other things I want to be doing.'

'No more beer? You canne be full already, sonny! Have another drink like a man! Waiter, ither ao, three more beers, jhaldi - and for Jesus' sake make it three that haven't been standing in the sun all f.u.c.king day.

You're like all the f.u.c.king English, Stubby, you canne take your liquor! Why, you're no' even smoking seriously!'

'Oh no? Then where the f.u.c.king h.e.l.l do you think most of this twenty packet of Wog Players has gone?

Up my a.r.s.e?'

'You don't call that smoking, do you? You're just an amateur at it, isn't he, Di? I tell you, I was smoking before I was weaned. Aye, I was! Smoking before I was weaned! My ma couldna afford to feed me, so she kept me at the t.i.ttie until I was three years old, by which time I was filching Woodies off my older brothers. Now get this beer down your throat and don't p.i.s.s about.'

'I don't want any more beer, f.u.c.k it, I want some f.u.c.king intercourse - get that through your sodding thick Glaswegian head!'

'This is the sort of tricky b.a.s.t.a.r.d we were up agin at Bannockburn!'

'Let's go over to the wh.o.r.ehouse, Jock - we can have another drink afterwards,' Di said.

'Are you two ganging up on me? I havene started drinking!' But he poured the beer a little faster down his throat and finally sc.r.a.ped his chair back. I rose in relief and found that the weak beer had a certain effect.