Singapore Grip - J. G. Farrell [64]
‘How sensitive people are about their moustaches out here, thought Matthew. ‘It must be the climate.’
‘Why don’t you prune the other side a bit?’ suggested Monty. ‘Even it up?’
‘Mustn’t look like Hitler.’
‘No, of course not,’ agreed Monty. To Matthew he explained: ‘The Major’s been trying to re-enlist for active service. He can’t be bothered with the Japs. Defend the old homeland, eh, Major?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid the war will be over by the time I get back to England. One worries, you know, about people at home in the air-raids. I have a couple of young nieces in London … well, not really nieces … more god-daughters than nieces, in South Kensington, actually, though strictly speaking …’
Monty interrupted: ‘You don’t say so, Major? I’ve heard that the entire might of the Luftwaffe is being thrown against South Kensington.’ To Matthew he said: ‘Come on, I’ll show you around quickly and then we’ll beetle off.’ They left the Major looking baffled.
‘Old bore,’ said Monty.
As they made their way round the bungalow Matthew was conscious of Joan’s blank eyes and neatly plucked eyebrows turning towards him from time to time, but she still had not addressed a word directly to him. Swinging louvred shutters divided one room from the next, there seemed to be no doors here except for the bathroom and one elaborately marked ‘Board of Directors’. They peered into his room which contained nothing except a long, deeply scratched table and a dozen or so chairs. Above the table a huge electric fan laboured noisily. Monty switched on the light at the door. A wiry, middle-aged man clad only in shorts lay stretched on the table, asleep with his mouth open. Monty led the way over to inspect him, saying: ‘This is Dupigny. I gather he’s supposed to have some sort of job here, God knows what, though. Hey, wake up!’ Monty shook him. ‘François is what is known as a “sleeping partner”,’ he jeered. ‘Come on, wake up! The Japs have landed in the garden!’ But the man on the table merely uttered a groan and turned over. They retreated, Monty saying over his shoulder: ‘François used to be a big-wig in the Indo-Chinese Government until Pétain booted him out. He’s convinced Jap parachutists are going to land any moment.’
Now at last they were approaching the rooms which had been set aside for the Chairman: a swinging door upholstered in green felt had once divided this part of the bungalow from the rest but now, removed from its hinges, it was merely propped against the wall. Beyond it, nevertheless, one could discern an improvement in the quality and condition of the furnishings. First, they came to an outer room used as an office. Matthew had expected a room that was perfectly bleak and bare of ornament, to match his own view of his father’s character. To his surprise the walls were crowded with pictures and photographs of all kinds. He barely had time to glance at them; besides, the presence of the young Blacketts inhibited him. But what was he to make of this sepia photograph showing his father perhaps thirty years ago, holding a tennis racket and with his arm cheerfully around the neck of his smiling partner or opponent? Or of this one of his father good-humouredly presenting something to a group of neatly suited Chinese, each of them with his trousers at half mast? Surely the old tyrant had not smiled more than once in his entire life!
They peered into the bedroom which lay beyond, a great high-ceilinged room which contained two massive Edwardian wardrobes, a narrow iron bed with a mosquito net hanging knotted above it like a furled sail, and a bedside table on which medicine bottles still crowded around the stem of a table-light. Matthew, harrowed by the sight of these medicine bottles, withdrew to the office once more. Joan had remained in the background plucking with finger and thumb at the back of her turban. The driver had brought