Singapore Grip - J. G. Farrell [63]
While Joan performed a quick and efficient inspection of herself in a hand-mirror, Matthew got out of the car and prepared to follow Monty.
‘I won’t come in with you, Matthew,’ Ehrendorf said. ‘I’m busy right now but I’ll see you later. We’ll get together real soon, OK?’ Now that he, too, had got out of the car and stood there, an elegant figure in his uniform, it seemed to Matthew that he looked more his former cheerful and confident self. They shook hands, agreed to telephone each other and then Matthew followed Monty around the side of the building to the main entrance. Here he glimpsed a tennis court, disused, from whose baked mud surface giant thistles had grown up and now waited like silent skeleton players in the gloom. Beyond the tennis court the compound was walled in on each side by a powerful tropical undergrowth and the encroaching jungle.
Gesturing in the darkness Monty said: ‘There’s a recreation hut and a lot of gym stuff over there. I expect you know that your father was keen on that sort of thing? What? You didn’t? He was very partial to rippling muscles and gleaming torsos.’ Monty chuckled cautiously. ‘This way. Watch your step.’
They made their way up protesting wooden steps to a front door that stood open and was plainly two or three inches too big for its frame. As Monty dragged it open further the hinges shrieked. He went inside. Matthew, having paused to polish his glasses, was about to follow him when he heard a faint scuffling sound from the darkness on the other side of the house. He heard the sound of heavy, indignant breathing, then silence followed and, after a few moments, a long, melancholy sigh, barely audible against the hum of the tropical night. In another moment he heard footsteps and Joan emerged from the gloom.
The interior of the bungalow exuded the unloved air of houses that have had to endure temporary occupation by a succession of transient lodgers. Matthew surmised that his father had not taken a great interest in his material surroundings.
‘What a dump!’ said Joan, wrinkling her perfect nose as she peered in.
‘It’s seen better days, I admit,’ agreed Monty. In the obscurity Matthew sensed rather than saw that the furiture was chipped, the paintwork peeling and the woodwork so warped that drawers and cupboards would no longer quite open, nor windows altogether close. He was surprised to think that it was in these modest surroundings that his father, a man of wealth, had spent so much of the latter part of his life. ‘Perhaps the old chap was not such an ogre after all.’
As he advanced into a wide verandah room scattered with darker masses which might be furniture, two floorboards sang in counterpoint under his shoes. A middle-aged man who had evidently been brooding by himself on the verandah in the now almost complete darkness came on a serpentine course through the sagging rattan furniture to meet them, snapping on a light switch as he passed and bathing the room in an electric light which at first flickered like a cinema projector but presently settled down to a more steady glow.
‘Major Brendan Archer,’ said Monty casting his sun-helmet away into the shadows. ‘This is Matthew Webb.’ He added to Matthew: ‘The Major has been more or less running things since your father’s illness.’
Matthew and the Major shook hands. The Major came vaguely to attention and said indistinctly: ‘I’d like to say how sorry … hm … your father …’ With a muffled bark indicating emotion he stood at ease again The Major had a mild, vaguely worried appearance. His very thin hair had been carefully smoothed with water and brushed straight back, revealing only the finest of partings. It was supplemented by a rather doleful moustache.
‘I see you’re looking at my moustache,’ the Major said, causing Matthew to start guiltily. ‘That blighter Cheong got at it with the scissors.