The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [397]
For now it was possible, with the opening of the Suez Canal in 1870, to ship cleaned rice to Europe, thereby cutting out the fine-millers who used to clean the ‘cargo rice’ in London.
‘Ruined ’em,’ Walter would remark with a frown. ‘They weren’t quick enough. A businessman must keep his wits about him.’ And if the young man happened to be starting out on a business career himself, as he probably was, Walter might pause to lecture him on how you must always be ready to move with the times, never taking anything for granted.
‘Go and join them!’ hissed Mrs Blackett to her daughter in a penetrating whisper. ‘You’re being impolite to your guest.’
‘But Mother, I’ve told you a thousand times …’ And it was true … she had.
The last picture of Rangoon had been painted after the turn of the century and showed how the thriving rice trade had caused it to spread and grow into a great modern city, now only surpassed as an Eastern port by Calcutta and Bombay. Walter would draw his dismayed captive closer and after a moment’s examination of the teeming wharves on the Rangoon River he would put his finger on a fine warehouse and say. ‘Our first! The first to belong to Blackett and Webb … or rather, to Webb and Company as the firm was then called. We still have another exactly similar here in Singapore on the river. Well now, you see how a bit of trade can make a place grow?’ And with an air of satisfaction he would lead the suitable young man on to yet more paintings of Calcutta, Penang, Malacca, and of Singapore itself, in various stages of development.
‘You see how we made these little villages grow in just a few years. That’s what a bit of tin and rubber have done for Singapore!’
There was still another painting to be seen, and one that was more important than all the others, but by now Mrs Blackett was growing impatient and calling Walter and his audience back for another cup of tea. These tea-parties, she was beginning to think, were not having the desired effect. A disturbing thought occurred to her and she eyed her daughter suspiciously. Could it be that the reason for Joan’s lack of interest in her guest was that she was already carrying on in secret with yet another unsuitable young man?
3
Walter, after one such occasion, found himself left alone to brood in the drawing-room while Joan, with a sudden friendliness born of relief, conducted her guest to his motor-car and then went to join little Kate who was waiting on the lawn with a warped tennis racket for a game of French cricket. Joan was still just enough of a schoolgirl to enjoy such games. As the young man’s limousine crept towards the gates his pale face appeared at one of the windows and he waved, but no one was paying any attention to his departure. He caught a glimpse of Joan, though, dashing joyfully after a tennis ball while Kate clumsily passed the racket round and round her plump little body, and he thought with a pang: ‘What a smasher!’ And rather well off, too. For once he and his parents were entirely in agreement. Too bad old Blackett was so peculiar!
Meanwhile, Mrs Blackett had seized the opportunity of slipping upstairs to Joan’s room in order to set her mind at rest by having a quick read of her daughter’s diary. She picked up this little volume and began to flick over its pages. So far, so good. There did not appear to be anything incriminating. She heaved a sigh of relief as the weeks fled by under her thumbnail. But then, just as she had almost reached this very week, she received a nasty shock, for the diary suddenly turned from plain English into a jumble of meaningless letters. What on earth did this signify? It could only be that Joan had taken to writing her diary in code! And that in turn must mean that