The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [448]
‘But the point is this …’ Monty was repeating, a trifle more sonorously than before, now that they were comfortably installed in the Pontiac one on each side of Joan. There was another pause, however, while the young men each lit a Craven A.
‘The point is this,’ he said yet again, puffing out an authoritative cloud of blue smoke. As he did so, Matthew found himself wondering whether Monty Blackett might not on occasion be ever so slightly ponderous and self-important, and though, of course, it had been kind of Monty to come and meet him, nevertheless, an ungrateful voice whispered in Matthew’s ear: ‘What is the point?’ and he glanced quickly at Joan to see whether she was sharing his impatience. But she was looking moodily in another direction… towards the wind-sock waltzing impatiently in the breeze at the end of the aerodrome, or towards a large American limousine with Stars and Stripes fluttering from its bonnet which had come into the airport drive at great speed with a squeal of tyres as it negotiated the bend but was now nosing uncertainly in the direction of the terminal building while the driver made up his mind which way to go. Presently, she turned her turbaned profile and her grey eyes fixed themselves intently on his face. He stirred uneasily.
‘The point is, Matthew, that at the moment the blighters are so anxious for our rubber that they go out of their way to help whenever they can. They’re not usually so helpful, I can assure you. And it doesn’t stop the bloody bureaucrats, those clever merchants in Whitehall, making a nuisance of themselves whenever they get the chance. We’re constantly battling with penpushers in some ministry or other a few thousands miles away.’ He added sententiously: ‘You’ll soon find that out when you have a look at the files in your father’s office. Now what’s all this? What does this cove want?’
While Monty had been speaking the American limousine which had been prowling about uncertainly for a while had at last made up its mind to approach the Pontiac. It came to a stop beside them and an American soldier slid out from behind the wheel and held the door open.
‘Oh lumme, it’s him,’ said Monty, glancing at Joan.
‘Great Scott!’ exclaimed Matthew. ‘I know that bloke. We were at Oxford together. His name’s Jim Ehrendorf … He’s a really wonderful fellow, you must meet him. I was meaning to try and look him up when I got here and now … but wait a sec … Of course, you already know him, don’t you?’ And Matthew clapped a hand to his brow.
‘Yes, we do,’ said Monty. ‘The thing is …’ But without waiting to hear what the thing was, Matthew had leaped out of the Pontiac and was warmly shaking hands with the smiling Ehrendorf. They exchanged a few words, both talking at once. Joan and Monty watched them blankly from the motor-car.
‘I thought I wouldn’t get here in time,’ Ehrendorf was saying as they turned back towards the Pontiac, ‘and I’m tied up for the rest of the day. In fact, I wouldn’t have heard you were arriving at all if it hadn’t been for the chance of meeting up with Walter downtown. Hiya Monty, Hiya Joan!’
‘Hiya,’ said Monty. Joan showed no more sign of acknowledging Ehrendorf’s presence than she had Matthew’s. She looked irritable and said again: ‘For God’s sake, let’s scram … It’s so hot.’
‘How pretty you look, Joan, in your vêtement de sport,’ said Ehrendorf in a way that managed to be both casual and rather tense. ‘ “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” ’
‘I’d far rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind,’ replied Joan sullenly. ‘Let’s go, for God’s sake.’
‘I know his type,’ said Matthew. ‘Next thing, he’ll be trying to tell you you’re “more lovely and more temperate”.’ Both he and Ehrendorf laughed but the two Blacketts