Singapore Grip - J. G. Farrell [36]
‘Times have changed. That’s what the old chap never wanted to see. He thought everything should continue the way it always had. But times have changed, for all that.’
Again that shadow stirred in the depths of his mind: to whom would Mr Webb leave his holdings in the business? ‘A businessman must move with the times,’ said Walter aloud. And breaking off Mr Webb’s other ear, in the interests of symmetry as much as of appetite, Walter departed in search of Monty and his guests, crunching it between his strong yellow teeth as he went.
9
Walter could hear no sound as he made his way along the passage to the breakfast-room and his hopes began to rise. The room, indeed, proved to be deserted, although aromatic cigar smoke still hung in the air. Could it be that the guests had taken their leave already, as a mark of respect to old Mr Webb? If that was the case, then so much the better; Walter was weary after the day’s difficulties. But one of the ‘boys’ clearing the table undeceived him. The party had moved outside to watch the yogi demonstrate his talents. Walter followed them, cracking his knuckles. ‘Let the young fool learn by his mistakes then!’
Stepping grimly out of the luxuriously refrigerated air of the house into the sweltering night Walter found that a little herd of guests, men in white dinner-jackets, women in long evening dresses, had collected on that same portico from which, earlier in the day, he had surveyed the progress of the garden-party. On each side flights of stone steps, glimmering white in the darkness, dropped in zigzags to the lawn on which, directly beneath the balustrade, a platform on wooden trestles had been set up for the yogi’s performance. Two powerful floodlights smoking with insects had been directed down on the yogi from above. From behind the lights the guests watched him uneasily. Walter passed among them, shaking hands and responding with a few grave words to their expressions of regret over the collapse of Mr Webb. It was true, of course, he muttered, that the old gentleman had had a good innings. Still, one could not help feeling that it was the end of an era. Walter’s words, replete with the quiet dignity which the situation demanded, were unfortunately accompanied by a strange descant from below, some monotonous rigmarole in a language no one could understand, spattered from time to time with incomprehensible English. Really, it was perfectly unsuitable and ludicrous.
Monty suddenly came springing up the steps from the lawn where he had evidently been making some final arrangements. He was rubbing his hands together violently and chuckling in anticipation. Walter’s heart sank at the sight of him: the boy had such a wild look.
‘There you are, Father. I was just going to get you. I was afraid you might miss this fellow. He’s really a scream. He does the most amazing things.’
Walter drew his son to one side and said quietly: ‘I want you to get this over as quickly as possible. I very much doubt whether it was ever a good idea, but to carry on with it this evening in view of what has happened to Mr Webb, really, you must have lost your senses.’
‘Oh, look here, Father …’ protested Monty.
But Walter went on, ignoring him: ‘I should have thought that the merest common sense would have told you … And what d’you think the Langfields will say when they hear about it? They’ll waste no time in putting it around that the Blacketts have been dancing on Mr Webb’s grave while the body is still warm!’
Walter, becoming excited, had spoken louder than he had intended and the bristles on his spine had puffed up beneath his shirt … One or two of the guests had begun to show signs of concern at this sudden whispered altercation between father and son.