The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [435]
A crunch of gravel. Walter turned away. The syce was approaching accompanied by Major Archer. The Major had come earlier on a similar mission to Walter’s. Old Mr Webb was still in the same condition, unconscious and paralysed. Walter could no doubt look in on him for a moment if he wanted.
‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ said Walter, moving back towards the Bentley, reprieved. ‘I really just came to find out how he was getting on.’ He lingered, however, for a moment with the Major, explaining that Mr Webb’s collapse meant that a number of difficult decisions would have to be taken. What were they going to do now about the theme of ‘Continuity’ in the jubilee procession? That was just one of many new problems that were zigzagging their way to the surface like bubbles as Mr Webb drew nearer to death. And should he make arrangements for young Matthew Webb to come out to Singapore? ‘After all, it seems a long way for him to come if he’s not going to inherit.’
The Major showed surprise. But surely. Why, Mr Webb had happened to mention only the other day that Matthew would be his heir! He had even asked the Major some months earlier to witness his signature on the appropriate document and at the same time had spoken warmly of those who devoted themselves to the rehabilitation of native peoples.
‘He said nothing to me about it,’ muttered Walter, thankful for the darkness which helped to mask the shock which this news had caused him. Until this moment he had allowed himself to entertain some hopes that, in default of an heir, he himself might be left at least a substantial part of Mr Webb’s holdings in the business.
‘Surely he would have told me if he had changed his mind?’ He stood for a moment with his hand on the door of the car looking up at the stars.
‘Well, perhaps I will go and look in on him after all,’ he said finally and with a nod to the Major made his way heavily towards where his former partner lay on his death-bed.
11
The medical opinion had been that Mr Webb would not survive more than a few hours. But the hours and the days and presently the weeks went by and still the old fellow lingered on. An era had ended, Walter was right about that, and no doubt a new era had begun. But Mr Webb somehow managed to survive this jolting passage over the switched points of history and live on into the spring of 1941. Most likely, if his feeble hold on life had been shaken loose and he had died then and there, which probably would have been best for everybody, Walter would not have thought it worth while to summon Matthew merely to attend a funeral. But Mr Webb continued to cling on stubbornly and, besides, if Matthew was to inherit his father’s share of the business Walter preferred to have him in Singapore where a clear idea of the serious responsibilities attached to his inheritance could be the more easily printed on his mind. After all, they knew so little of Matthew. He would have to make up his own mind, of course, whether or not to come out. Was he even in Europe still? A number of the more affluent people in Britain, according to J. B. Priestley’s wireless broadcasts, were prudently moving to Canada and the United States, leaving the lower classes to defend their estates against the Germans. Walter knew nothing of Matthew’s financial situation but assumed that he must be, at least, comfortably off.
As a child Matthew had once or twice written dutiful letters to ‘Dear Uncle Walter’, thanking him (his little fingers guided by his mother’s hand) for some Christmas present or other. In the years that followed the General Strike one or two more