The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [38]
Reppington and Bretherton nodded their way forward. “Evening, Granger.” “Evening, Barker.” “Evening, Jagger,” and then in an audible undertone Bretherton inquired, “Who’s the chap in the corner with La Vie?”
“Name of Brooks. Petrol or something.”
“Ah.”
“Pink gin?”
“Ah.”
“What sort of day?”
“Bad show, rather. Trouble about draining the cricket field. No subsoil.”
“Ah. Bad show.”
The Goan barman put their drinks before them. Bretherton signed the chit.
“Well, cheerio.”
“Cheerio.”
Mr. Brooks remained riveted upon La Vie Parisienne.
Presently Major Lepperidge came in, and the atmosphere stiffened a little. (He was O.C. of the native levy, seconded from India.)
“Evening, Major,” from civilians. “Good evening, sir,” from the military.
“Evening. Evening. Evening. Phew. Just had a very fast set of lawner with young Kentish. Hot service. Gin and lime. By the way, Bretherton, the cricket field is looking pretty seedy.”
“I know. No subsoil.”
“I say, that’s a bad show. No subsoil. Well, do what you can, there’s a good fellow. It looks terrible. Quite bare and a great lake in the middle.”
The Major took his gin and lime and moved towards a chair; suddenly he saw Mr. Brooks, and his authoritative air softened to unaccustomed amiability. “Why, hallo, Brooks,” he said. “How are you? Fine to see you back. Just had the pleasure of seeing your daughter at the tennis club. My missus wondered if you and she would care to come up and dine one evening. How about Thursday? Grand. She’ll be delighted. Good-night you fellows. Got to get a shower.”
The occurrence was sensational. Bretherton and Reppington looked at one another in shocked surprise.
Major Lepperidge, both in rank and personality, was the leading man in Matodi—in the whole of Azania indeed, with the single exception of the Chief Commissioner at Debra Dowa. It was inconceivable that Brooks should dine with Lepperidge. Bretherton himself had only dined there once and he was Government.
“Hullo, Brooks,” said Reppington “Didn’t see you there behind your paper. Come and have one.”
“Yes, Brooks,” said Bretherton. “Didn’t know you were back. Have a jolly leave? See any shows?”
“It’s very kind of you, but I must be going. We arrived on Tuesday in the Ngoma. No, I didn’t see any shows. You see, I was down at Bournemouth most of the time.”
“One before you go.”
“No really, thanks, I must get back. My daughter will be waiting. Thanks all the same. See you both later.”
Daughter . . . ?
II
There were eight Englishwomen in Matodi, counting Mrs. Bretherton’s two-year-old daughter; nine if you included Mrs. Macdonald (but no one did include Mrs. Macdonald who came from Bombay and betrayed symptoms of Asiatic blood. Besides, no one knew who Mr. Macdonald had been. Mrs. Macdonald kept an ill-frequented pension on the outskirts of the town named “The Bougainvillea”). All who were of marriageable age were married; they led lives under a mutual scrutiny too close and unremitting for romance. There were, however, seven unmarried Englishmen, three in Government service, three in commerce and one unemployed, who had fled to Matodi from his creditors in Kenya. (He sometimes spoke vaguely of “planting” or “prospecting,” but in the meantime drew a small remittance each month and hung amiably about the Club and the tennis courts.)
Most of these bachelors were understood to have some girl at home; they kept photographs in their rooms, wrote long letters regularly, and took their leave with hints that when they returned they might not be alone. But they invariably were. Perhaps in precipitous eagerness for sympathy they painted