A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [230]
Their destination and length of the holiday had been disclosed. The manner of transportation was still kept secret: it was to be the final surprise. It also caused Mr Biswas much anxiety. All week he had been dreading the arrival of Miss Logie in her brand-new Buick. He intended the gap between her arrival and their departure to be as brief as possible. Under no circumstances was she to be allowed to get out of the car. For then she might go through the gate and get a glimpse of what went on below the house; she might even go there. Or she might go up the steps and knock on the front door; W. C. Tuttle would come out, and heaven knows what pose he would be in that morning: yogi, weight-lifter, pundit, lorry-driver at rest. At all costs she had to be prevented from entering the front room and seeing the Slumberking where Mr Biswas had lain and written his formal acceptance of the post of Community Welfare Officer, seeing the destitute’s diningtable still stacked with books on sociology, village reconstruction in India, cottage industries and juvenile delinquency.
Accordingly, although Miss Logie had said she would arrive at nine, the children were fed and dressed by eight, and set up as sentinels by the gate. From time to time they deserted their posts; then, after agitated search, they were extricated from groups of readers and learners or hurried out of the lavatory. Shama was finding she had forgotten all sorts of things: toothbrushes, towels, bottle-opener. Mr Biswas himself could not decide what book to take, and was in and out of the front room. Eventually all was ready and they stood strung out on the front steps, waiting to pounce. Mr Biswas was dressed as for holiday: tieless, with Saturday’s shirt bearing the impress of Saturday’s tie, his coat over his arm and his book in his hand. Shama was in her ornate visiting clothes; she might have been going to a wedding.
Waiting, they were infiltrated by readers and learners. ‘Haul your little tail,’ Mr Biswas whispered savagely. ‘Get back inside. Go and comb your hair. And you, go and put on some shoes.’ A few of the younger were cowed; the older, knowing that Mr Biswas had no rights, flogging or ordering, over them, were openly contemptuous and, to Mr Biswas’s dismay, some went out on to the pavement, where they stood like storks, jamming the sole of one foot against the smudged and streaked pink-washed wall. The gramophone was playing an Indian film song; Govind was whining out the Ramayana; Chinta’s scraping voice was raised querulously; Basdai was shrilling after some of her girls to come and help with the lunch.
Then the cries came. A green Buick had turned the corner. Mr Biswas and his family were down the steps with suitcases and hampers, Mr Biswas shouting angrily now to the readers and learners to get away.
When the car stopped, Mr Biswas and his family were standing right on the edge of the pavement. Miss Logie, sitting next to the chauffeur, smiled and gave a little wave, using fingers alone. She appeared to recognize what was required of her and did not get out of the car. Expressionlessly the chauffeur opened doors and stowed away suitcases and hampers in the boot.
W. C. Tuttle came out to the verandah, the lorry-driver at rest. His khaki shorts revealed round sturdy legs, and his white vest showed off a broad chest and large flabby arms. Leaning over the half-wall of the verandah, under the hanging ferns, he put a long finger delicately to one quivering nostril and, with a brief explosive noise, emitted some snot from the other nostril.
Mr Biswas chattered