Singapore Grip - J. G. Farrell [82]
‘Well, I must say …’ began Matthew, but his tired brain declined to furnish him with any suitable observation.
‘You like Joan, perhaps? Yes, she is a nice English girl, healthy, full of virtues, plainly but solidly built in the English manner, made (comme le bread-pudding de Madame sa mère) entirely of good things, but, alas, without either the ravishing innocence of a child or the serious attractions of a mature woman. Personally I believe the only one of the Blackett ladies to my taste is la petite … Miss Kate, and even she is becoming a trifle trop mûre … She is already in my opinion a bit too … how d’you say … bien balancée … bien foutue … Yes a bit too well-endowed, thank you.’
‘But she’s only a child!’
‘I agree she has that in her favour. All the same, the rot begins. I speak physically, of course.’ Dupigny suppressed a yawn.
‘Of course,’ agreed Matthew hastily, feeling the tide of the conversation carrying him swiftly out of his depth. ‘But what I meant was …’
‘Ah, Joan is returning at last.’
The night air seemed very humid: the breeze had dropped, increasing the impression of heat. An hour ago there had been a brief, heavy downpour and water still gurgled busily in the deep storm-drain beside the road, but overhead the sky was clear. Matthew and Dupigny sauntered along hands in pockets; Joan walked between them, humming a song beneath her breath. As the road curved towards the Mayfair, however, she dragged the two men to a stop and disengaged herself. She had promised her mother she would not stay out long. Matthew shook hands with her stiffly: he thought it best not to attempt a more intimate embrace for the moment. As for Dupigny, he collected her slender fingers in his own and conveyed them to his lips but, despite the darkness, Matthew could see that he was using them to mask the remains of the yawn against which he had been struggling while speculating on the sensual qualities of the Blackett women.
‘How romantic you are, François! Why can’t Englishmen be like you? Well, good night!’
Matthew and Dupigny walked on towards the Major’s bungalow which seemed, as far as Matthew could tell in the darkness, to be no less ramshackle than the Mayfair Building on the other side of the road. They called at the verandah but there was no reply, except the soft cry of a night-bird from somewhere in the undergrowth. Matthew produced his packet of Craven A and they each lit a cigarette, lingering in the road while they smoked: indoors the heat would be suffocating.
‘D’you happen to know what the Singapore Grip is?’ Matthew asked. ‘Some people I met said I should watch out for it.’
‘I believe it is what they call here a certain tropical fever, very grave. Certainly, you must watch out for it.’
‘Oh?’ But why, wondered Matthew, would the RAF men have found it so amusing if it was a serious illness? This was a mystery.
Matthew would have pursued the matter but Dupigny was asking him how well he knew his old friend Major Archer. ‘What? You have been introduced only? You must make his acquaintance better …’ And he went on to explain how fond he was of the Major. The Major, indeed, was one of the few people on earth for whom he, Dupigny, had any affection at all. They had first met in France during the Great War. In those days he had been a liaison officer with a British regiment. He and the Major had hardly known each other then. After the war he himself had gone to Indo-China, the Major had gone to Ireland. But then, one day in 1925, on a visit to London to see his tailor during his European leave, they had bumped into each other at a restaurant in the Strand, chez Simpson, perhaps? With enormous difficulty they had succeeded in recognizing each other, they had exchanged cards, they had renewed their acquaintanceship. Then, in the course of his next visit to Europe in 1930, they had met yet again, this time on purpose, and