Уильям Николсон - Motherland

‘That’s enough, Rupert,’ says Geraldine. ‘Can’t you see we’re interrupting your friend’s prayers?’

‘Oh, I’m done,’ says Larry. ‘If prayers can ever be said to be done.’

‘Do you make a habit of this?’ says Rupert, gesturing round the chapel.

‘Not at all,’ says Larry. ‘I’ve not been in here for years.’

‘Me neither,’ says Rupert. ‘It’s hideous, isn’t it? Of course I know it’s not finished. But it seems all wrong to me, building a cathedral out of red brick.’

‘And all stripy, like a cake,’ says Larry.

Geraldine smiles at that.

‘To be fair, I think it’s supposed to be Byzantine,’ says Rupert. ‘Do you approve of it, as an artist?’

‘Oh, are you an artist?’ says Geraldine, opening her eyes wide.

‘I was,’ says Larry. ‘Not any more.’

Rupert is surprised to hear this.

‘I’d got the idea you were pretty set on it.’

‘You know how it goes,’ says Larry. ‘Time goes by. You move on.’

‘So what line are you in now?’ says Rupert.

‘Just looking about,’ says Larry.

‘Nothing fixed?’

‘Not as yet.’

They walk out of the chapel and across the nave to the exit. The light beyond the doors is a bright pearl-grey.

‘Guess where I’m off to,’ says Rupert. ‘India.’

‘Oh?’ says Larry politely, not interested.

‘I’m back with Dickie Mountbatten. He’s been given the viceroy job. He’s being sent out there to wind up the Empire.’

‘At least it’ll get you away from this winter,’ says Larry.

‘You know Dickie thinks the world of you,’ says Rupert. ‘Ever since you volunteered for the Dieppe show.’

‘Not very bright of me, as it turned out.’

‘Look here, Larry. Why don’t you come with us?’

He’s come to a standstill in the narthex. The cold air from the outer doors ruffles their coats. He’s looking at Larry as if he’s serious.

‘To India?’

‘Yes. Dickie’s been told he can hire all the staff he likes. Alan Campbell-Johnson’s coming, and Ronnie Brockman, and George Nicholls. There’ll be a lot of the old crowd there.’

‘But why would he want me? What would I do?’

‘Oh, it’s going to be a devil of a posting, don’t you worry about that. More work than any of us can handle. The great thing is, Dickie says, to surround yourself with good men. And you know what, Larry? We’ll see history in the making. It may not be what you call glorious, but it’ll be unforgettable.’

The proposal is so far-fetched that Larry wants to laugh. But at the same time the prospect Rupert conjures up fills him with excitement. To go far away, to a new world, with new concerns. To learn fast and work hard and forget the past. To leave behind in the endless winter that is England the fool who thought he was an artist, and thought he was loved by Nell. To start again, and be someone new.

‘Do you really think Dickie would have me?’

‘Yes, I do. It’s chaos, to be honest, the whole shooting match. We’re scheduled to go east in a month, and they’re still arguing over the timetable for independence, or even if it’s to be called independence. Winston and the Tories won’t hear of anything with that name, and of course the nationalist leaders out there won’t accept anything less.’

‘I’m getting cold, Rupert,’ says Geraldine.

‘Yes, right, we’re on our way.’ To Larry, ‘Do you want me to put in a word?’

‘How long would it be for?’

‘Six months minimum. Current target is to get us out by June next year.’

‘Sounds like it would be quite an experience.’

‘Good for you. Let me have your number, and stand by for a call.’

They exchange phone numbers, and Rupert and Geraldine hurry out into the street. Larry lingers for a little while in the big dark church, so that he can say thank you. It seems to him his prayer has been answered.

Two days later Larry presents himself in his only good suit at Brook House on Park Lane, the mansion that became Mountbatten’s London base on his marriage to the heiress Edwina Ashley. Rupert Blundell is waiting for him in the immense lobby.

‘Looking good,’ he says. ‘He’s got someone with him, but he says you’re to hang on.’

He leads Larry up the wide curving staircase to a first-floor reception room.

‘Do you mind if I abandon you? We’ve got a sort of staff pow-wow coming up. The old man knows you’re here.’

‘No, no. Off you go.’

Left to himself, Larry feels out of place in the grandeur and the aura of power of his surroundings. He goes to the wide window and stands gazing out at the bare trees and grey snow of Hyde Park. He tries to imagine India, a muddle of images from Kipling’s stories and models of the Taj Mahal and newsreels of Gandhi in his loincloth. Strange to think that this little frozen island should govern a faraway continent where the hot sun is, presumably, shining even now.

Rapid footsteps outside and in bursts Mountbatten, bringing with him a wave of energy and goodwill.

‘Cornford!’ he cries. ‘This is marvellous news! Will you join us?’

‘If you’ll have me, sir.’

‘I need all the good men I can find. It’s going to be what they call a challenge.’

He sits Larry down before him and pins him with his handsome boyish gaze.

‘Probably best to get you back into uniform,’ he says. ‘They go for that sort of thing out there. What rank did you end on?’

‘Captain, sir.’

‘Pity it has to be army. There, the terrible snobbery of a navy man. You’ll just have to forgive me.’

He runs through the team he’s assembling, and the nature of the challenges they face, speaking briskly, even bluntly.

‘Our job is to get us out without it looking like a scuttle, and without leaving too unholy a mess behind. Not a pretty job, when you look at it in the cold light of day. Not a job I wanted at all, to be honest. But one does one’s duty. And I think both Edwina and I need to get out of London.’

At this point Lady Mountbatten herself looks into the room.

‘Just on my way out, darling,’ she says.

Mountbatten introduces Larry.

‘His grandfather was the banana king,’ he says. ‘Larry was in Combined Ops with me.’

Edwina Mountbatten gives Larry a sharp appraising look, and a quick smile.

‘That was a shambles, as far as I can tell.’

She goes again.

‘The most remarkable woman in the world,’ says Mountbatten. ‘I’ll tell you what. Let me show you something.’

He strides out of the room and up the stairs. Larry hurries to keep up.

‘My wife knows all I’ve ever really wanted is to be at sea. I worship the navy. You can keep all this viceroy nonsense. Just give me command of a capital ship and I’m a happy man.’

He leads Larry through a door into a suite at the back of the fourth floor. The walls and ceilings are white enamel, criss-crossed by pipes and cables. At one end is a ship’s bunk, with a brass rail. On one side there are three portholes. The entire illusion is that they have entered the captain’s cabin on a man-of-war.

Mountbatten looks happily at Larry’s amazed face.

‘Edwina had this made for me.’

On one side there stands a dressmaker’s dummy wearing an admiral’s uniform, complete with decorations.

‘My father’s uniform,’ says Mountbatten. ‘Prince Louis, who your grandfather wrote to The Times about. So you see, I don’t forget.’

As they descend the stairs again he says, ‘Speaking of not forgetting, and of what my wife calls a shambles, I’ve not forgotten Dieppe. I don’t expect you have, either.’

‘I’ll never forget that day, sir.’