The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [447]
After the two young men had exchanged greetings, which they had to shout because of the noise from the engines, there was an awkward pause between them.
‘Look, it’s been raining,’ Matthew shouted, nodding at the shivering pools of rainwater that lay here and there on the tarmac; at the same time he smiled at himself, thinking that that was not what he had meant to say at all.
‘What?’ bellowed Monty, stepping forward and giving Matthew an odd look. ‘Yes, I’ll say it has, it rains almost every bloody day at the moment, I’ll have you know. Come on now,’ he added, ‘enough of the weather.’ He took Matthew’s arm to steer him away from that whining aeroplane which only then agreed to arrest its motors with a few last chugs and swishes. ‘Well, well, same old Matthew,’ he chuckled cautiously, though, strictly speaking, he could not have known very much about the ‘old Matthew’ at all, since they had never met before. Once more he darted an odd, sideways look at Matthew as if trying to weigh him up, while, still chuckling vaguely, he conducted him to the terminal building, a surprisingly up-to-date construction with control tower and observation decks, somewhat resembling a cinema. Matthew remarked on its modern appearance. Singapore must be quite …
‘Oh yeah,’ agreed Monty indifferently. Brightening a little, he added: ‘They have a restaurant there. You don’t feel like some oysters, do you? They fly them in from Hawkesbury River in Australia. Look, that’s not such a bad idea …’
‘Well, not just at the moment, thanks,’ said Matthew, surprised. Monty’s enthusiasm subsided with a grimace. Matthew, still groping for a topic of conversation, said: ‘I must say, I don’t know how you stand this heat.’
‘Heat? This is the coolest part of the day. Wait and see how hot it can get here. I say, is something the matter?’ For Matthew had suddenly stiffened.
‘I think that man is making off with my bags.’ Like many people whose natural inclination is to think the best of people Matthew found it necessary, when travelling, to remain dramatically on the alert to defend himself against malefactors.
‘He bloody well better had be,’ grinned Monty. ‘Otherwise he’ll get hell from me!’
‘You mean …?’
‘Of course. He’s our syce … you know, chauffeur. Now don’t worry, old boy. Just trust old Monty. Everything’s organized. Come on, Sis is waiting for us in the car …’ And with that he led the way out of the building uttering a strange, smothered groan as he went. Matthew hurried after him, filled with pleasure at the prospect of seeing little Kate, to whom he had taken a considerable liking in the course of their one short meeting.
‘Monty, I must thank you for getting me on that plane. Otherwise I might have been stuck in Ceylon for ever, what with the war and so forth.’
‘Think nothing of it. We just pulled a few of the right strings and it was a stroke of luck that there happened to be an empty plane coming our way. You see, the point is this …’
Now they had reached the motor-car and Monty broke off to give the driver some instructions. The latter murmured: ‘Yes, Tuan,’ and stowed Matthew’s suitcases in the back of the vehicle; this was a huge open Pontiac with white tyres, a wide running-board and deep leather seats. A young woman whom Matthew failed to recognize was half reclining on the back seat, holding a cigarette holder in a studied pose. She was wearing a simple white cotton frock and a green turban with two knots which stood up, Hollywood style, like a rabbit’s ears. The haft of a tennis racket was gripped between her bare calves and its glimmering strings between her pretty, pink knees. She ignored Matthew’s greeting and said to Monty: ‘Let’s scram before I die of heat.’ Matthew,