Singapore Grip - J. G. Farrell [52]
‘By the way,’ Walter permitted himself to enquire at last, ‘did you hear any more about the new buying arrangements for the Reserve Company?’
‘Why, yes, as a matter of fact.’ Ehrendorf looked somewhat uncomfortable at the question. ‘I guess I can rely on you to keep it to yourself!’ Walter reassured him, trying to seem casual.
‘Buying is to be centralized … no more private deals. All rubber exports to the United States are to be licensed. Licences will only be issued for shipping through the central buying agency and for fulfilling any outstanding forward contracts.’
‘I see,’ said Walter. ‘That’s interesting. Outstanding orders will go through? When will it begin?’
Ehrendorf did not know. ‘In a few days, I suppose.’
Walter said goodbye to Ehrendorf and climbed into the back seat of the Bentley. ‘Mohammed,’ he said presently to the syce, ‘I would like you to drop me at Collyer Quay and then to go to the Mayfair with a message for Major Archer. Tell him that I have been delayed by a very serious matter but will come as soon as I can.’ He sat back, satisfied with his decision. It was one, he knew, with which old Mr Webb would have been in perfect sympathy.
As it turned out, although it was evening before Walter had at last finished sending cables and reached the Mayfair, there had been no particular need to hurry: his old friend and partner still had not succumbed. Nor, for that matter, did there appear to have been any great change in his condition. Mr Webb still lay there, breathing noisily in his illuminated tent of white muslin. The Major explained, however, that the old man had gone through a crisis of some sort about mid-day, had appeared restless, and several times had repeated the word ‘sun’ and a number of other words too garbled to be understood, at least by the Major.
‘But the interesting thing was,’ he told Walter, ‘that Vera Chiang, who was here at the time, thought she understood that he was trying to say: “Sun Yat-sen”.’
‘Nonsense!’ cried Walter. ‘The old boy just wanted to go and prune his roses in the nude. He didn’t give tuppence for Sun Yat-sen.’ And clapping the Major cheerfully on the back Walter strode off, chuckling, through the compound in the direction of his own house; but as he went a grim thought came stealing after him through the hushed garden and pounced on him before he had reached the safety of his own walls: ‘This is how we all end up, mumbling rubbish to people who interpret it as they want!’
On the evenings that followed, while Mr Webb, now mute again, continued to lie there, and on through June, July and August of 1941, Walter’s nostalgia for the old Singapore became acute. Perhaps this was paradoxical for in the old days, about which he was less and less able to resist holding forth to Major Archer at his dying partner’s bedside, business had never boomed the way it was booming now. But in those days the atmosphere had been different, more relaxed … no, it was not simply youth, though being young undoubtedly had something to do with it. No, it was the place itself. Singapore had been different in those days. Business had been an adventure, not the grim striving for advantage it had become latterly. They had been as if on a different time scale: everything had seemed to happen more slowly, more comfortably.
Walter paused, staring up as if for enlightenment at the grey metallic blur of the ceiling fan and then down again at the billowing cocoon of the mosquito net within which lay old Mr Webb (soon to be hatched out into a better world). At one time in Singapore everyone had known everyone. Those were the days of great rambling colonial houses where the tradition of lavish hospitality lingered on from the nineteenth century. Ah well, all that had gone with the wind. In the course of time the bachelor messes, too, which the