Singapore Grip - J. G. Farrell [40]
‘Search me. The only person who seems to be still here is young Ehrendorf. He’s in the sitting-room smoking cigarettes. As for the others …’ Walter shrugged. All the guests had gone. Monty had gone. Joan had gone. The yogi had gone, full of china.
‘You mean, full of china tea?’
‘No, not really, no, I don’t,’ replied Walter in an edgy sort of tone.
Mrs Blackett sighed but felt too weak to pursue the matter.
‘Well, I suppose I should go to the hospital to see how old Webb is getting on.’
Downstairs, Walter found that there was another guest who had not yet departed though now, daunted by the empty echoing rooms, he seemed to be in the process of doing so: this was Dr Brownley, their family doctor. Dr Brownley frequently visited the Blacketts, but more often for social than for professional reasons. Indeed, he was always invited to the Blacketts’ parties, always came, was always the first to arrive and usually the last to leave. The Doctor, however, was troubled by the knowledge that he was always going to the Blacketts’ but never invited them back! Someone less addicted than the Doctor to the grand social occasions in which the Blacketts specialized, where inevitably one found oneself cheek by jowl with the people who mattered in the Straits, might have preferred to soothe his inflamed conscience, or at least to limit the spread of further inflammation, by not accepting any more invitations. Such a remedy, alas, was out of reach of the good Doctor. Though his inflammation throbbed more painfully on each new occasion he simply could not but accept. Now, at the sight of Walter on the stairs he winced visibly, thinking: ‘This makes it twelve times in a row and they haven’t once been invited to my house!’ He had been hoping to slip out of the house while no one was about, thus avoiding the awkwardness of a leave-taking. Indeed, the reason Walter had not seen him earlier was that the Doctor had dodged behind a bookcase to avoid detection. But this time there was no escape and he called out heartily: ‘Ah, there you are, Walter. I was looking for you to thank you and, of course, Mrs Blackett for a delightful … mind you, one of many such … I’m just off now. Must be going. Look here, you must come to my place one of these days…Can I give you a lift? No, of course, this is where you live, isn’t it? Ha, ha, well, hm … You must come to …’ His voice trailed off into a mutter as he prepared to plunge into the friendly darkness outside. Issuing invitations, the Doctor had found, provided a little welcome relief in awkward situations like this … but you felt correspondingly worse later when faced with the prospect of redeeming them!
‘What’s that?’ demanded Walter, puzzled by the Doctor’s habit of muttering to himself before departure. The Doctor flinched. ‘I was just saying that you must come to my place one of these days,’ he was obliged to state in a clear and unequivocal tone.
‘Oh, all right. Why not?’ said Walter. ‘Good night, Doctor.’ And with that he returned to the drawing-room.
Walter, who had a horror of hospitals, had been contemplating a quiet stengah before paying a visit to old Mr Webb. He had forgotten that young Ehrendorf was still there and was not altogether pleased to find the room full of cigarette smoke. ‘These days you really have to winkle out your guests one by one,’ he thought as Ehrendorf stood up politely, trailing a newspaper from his fingers. However, on the whole he had a good opinion of Ehrendorf and even felt, as one male to another, some sympathy for him in his predicament with Joan. But there it was, women were peculiar and there was not very much one could do about it. If some woman had thrown wine in Walter’s face as a young man he would have fetched her a clout. Ah, but then he had never