The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [455]
‘No, you bloody can’t. I’m busy. And what are you doing here, anyway? You’re supposed to be out on the bloody estate. We don’t pay you to hang around Singapore.’
‘I just came in this evening, Monty. You see, it’s rather important and I had already mentioned it some time ago to Mr Webb before his illness …’
‘You just came in this evening, did you, Turner? Well, you can bugger off back this evening, too. If you aren’t satisfied with your pay you can send us a letter of resignation and join the bloody Army. Got it?’
‘But I’ve just spoken to Major Archer and he …’
‘I don’t care who you’ve spoken to. I’m telling you to hop it. Get going. Scram!’
‘I could eat a horse,’ said Joan suddenly, addressing Matthew for the first time and even smiling at him. ‘I only had a sandwich at the Cold Storage for lunch. Actually, I’m trying to lose weight. How much do you think I weigh? Go on, have a guess.’ Matthew could only blink at her, however, too astonished to reply.
The young man’s face had turned very pale and his forehead glistened with perspiration: there was clearly nothing for it but for him to depart, and he did so, but without making any abrupt movement. His image seemed gradually to grow indistinct until presently one could make out pieces of furniture where he had been standing and then he had faded away completely.
‘Eight stone exactly!’ exclaimed Joan in triumph, clapping her hands. ‘I knew you couldn’t. Nobody can. You see, it’s partly the way I dress.’
‘That miserable cove,’ Monty explained in a self-satisfied tone, ‘is Robin Turner, the manager of your estate in Johore, though you’d hardly think so the amount of time he spends in Singapore. That little so-and-so and I were at school together and I pulled a few strings to get him a job out here when jobs weren’t easy to come by. What d’you know? Within a couple of years he’d got himself married to a stengah and his career out here was as good as finished.’
‘A stengah?’
‘Half one thing and half the other … a Eurasian … a mixed drink! You can tell ’em by their chichi accent … sing-song like Welsh. He’s been trying to get her a job as a governess in a white household but nobody wants their kids to end up with that accent … no fear! In this part of the world, Matthew, people don’t mind who you have your fun with, provided you do it discreetly (they’re pretty broad-minded about that), but they get shirty if you try to mix things socially. Quite a few young fools like Turner have lost their jobs or missed promotion with European companies because they thought they could suit themselves. Young Turner had to resign from the clubs he’d joined, of course, double quick. I warned him it would happen but no, he knew better.’ Monty heaved a sigh: his good-nature had been tried to the limit. ‘Anyway, you’ve seen the set-up. Let’s go and get something to eat.’
Matthew glanced at Joan. Her moment of animation had passed; now she was looking down her nose and plucking delicately at her chest, evidently rearranging whatever she wore under her frock. ‘Isn’t François supposed to be coming?’ she wanted to know.
On their way back to the verandah they came across Dupigny, now clad in a billowing white suit, tying his tie by the light of a candle. He was a gaunt, dignified man in his fifties. He said in careful English: ‘I shall follow you, Monty. I look forward with delicious alarm to discover what your cook has prepared for us.’
15
‘My dear boy, it gives me great pleasure to welcome you at last to this house and, I should say, to these Straits Settlements which your father did so much to build up in his lifetime.’ Monty and Joan had slipped off to change, leaving Matthew to introduce himself as best he could to the elder Blacketts whom he had with some difficulty located in a palatial drawing-room. He had often tried to picture Walter Blackett: he had supposed him to be someone very large and commanding. As it turned out, the man with whom he had just shaken hands was certainly commanding, but only his head was large: it loomed over a