The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [29]
“Are you all right? Awaiting you here. Tom,” and received the answer:
“Quite all right. Your friend divine. Why not join us here. Angela.”
“In bed severe cold. Tom.”
“So sorry darling. Will see you in London or shall I join you. Hardly worth it is it. Angela.”
“Will see you London. Tom.”
Of course Angela and he knew each other very well . . .
Two days later they met in the little flat which Mrs. Watch had been decorating for them.
“I hope you’ve brought all the luggage.”
“Yes, darling. What fun to be home!”
“Office tomorrow.”
“Yes, and I’ve got hundreds of people to ring up. I haven’t thanked them for the last batch of presents yet.”
“Have a good time?”
“Not bad. How’s your cold?”
“Better. What are we doing tonight?”
“I promised to go and see mama. Then I said I would dine with your Devon friend. He came up with me to see about some cow-cake. It seemed only decent to take him out after staying with him.”
“Quite right. But I think I won’t come.”
“No, I shouldn’t. I shall have heaps to tell her that would bore you.”
That evening Mrs. Trench-Troubridge said: “I thought Angela was looking sweet tonight. The honeymoon’s done her good. So sensible of Tom not to take her on some exhausting trip on the Continent. You can see she’s come back quite rested. And the honeymoon is so often such a difficult time particularly after all the rush of the wedding.”
“What’s this about their taking a cottage in Devon?” asked her husband.
“Not taking dear, it’s being given them. Near the house of a bachelor friend of Tom’s apparently. Angela said it would be such a good place for her to go sometimes when she wanted a change. They can never get a proper holiday because of Tom’s work.”
“Very sensible, very sensible indeed,” said Mr. Trench-Troubridge, lapsing into a light doze, as was usual with him at nine in the evening.
TOO MUCH TOLERANCE
A round, amiable face, reddened rather than browned by the tropical sun; round, rather puzzled grey eyes; close-cut sandy hair; a large, smiling mouth; a small sandy moustache; clean white duck suit and sun helmet—a typical English commercial agent stopping between ships at a stifling little port on the Red Sea.
We were the only Europeans in the hotel. The boat for which we were both waiting was two days late. We spent all our time together.
We went round the native bazaar and played interminable games of poker dice at the café tables. In these circumstances a casual acquaintance easily assumes a confidential tone.
At first naturally enough we talked of general subjects—local conditions and race problems.
“Can’t understand what all the trouble’s about. They’re all jolly chaps when you get to know them.” British officials, traders, Arabs, natives, Indian settlers—they were all to my new friend jolly good chaps.
Such an odd thing they couldn’t get on better. Of course, different races had different ideas—some didn’t wash, some had queer ideas about honesty, some got out of hand at times when they’d had too much to drink.
“Still,” he said, “that’s nobody’s business but their own. If only they’d all let each other alone to go their own ways there wouldn’t be any problems. As for religions, well, there was a lot of good in them all—Hindu, Mahommedan, Pagan: the missionaries did a lot of good, too—Wesleyan, Catholic, Church of England, all jolly good fellows.”
People in remote parts of the world tend to have unshakable views on every topic. After a few months spent among them it was a relief to come across so tolerant and broad a mind.
On the first evening I left my companion with a feeling of warm respect. Here at last, in a continent peopled almost exclusively by fanatics of one kind or another, I thought I had