The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [456]
In her day Mrs Blackett had been considered beautiful, but all that now remained of her good looks were a pair of cornflower blue eyes, a shade or two darker than Walter’s, set in a puffy, handsome, disappointed face. She still retained, however, some of the mannerisms of a woman accustomed to being admired for her appearance: a habit of throwing back her head to shake away the ringlets which had once tumbled charmingly over her smooth cheeks, or of opening her eyes very wide while you were talking to her, as if what you were saying was of enthralling interest. It made little difference whether you spoke about the emergence of a Swahili literature, about training schemes for electrical engineers, or about the best way to stuff a field-mouse. She would still gaze at you as if fascinated, her lovely eyes open very wide. Sometimes this automatic fascination could have a numbing effect on her interlocutor.
Looking at Mrs Blackett’s disappointed, once-beautiful face, Matthew suddenly recognized that Joan was a beauty, though until this moment her appearance had not made much impression on him. It was as if, looking into her mother’s faded features, he was confronted by a simplified version of Joan’s and could say to himself: ‘So that’s the sort of face it’s supposed to be!’ It was a process not very different, he supposed, from thinking a girl was beautiful because she reminded you of a painting by Botticelli: if you had never seen the painting you would not have noticed her. But wait, what was it the Blacketts were saying?
For some moments the Blacketts, each ignoring the other’s voice as only a married couple can, had been raining statements, questions and declarations of one kind or another on the already sufficiently bewildered Matthew. In the course of the next few minutes of incoherent conversation they touched on the war, his journey, rationing in Britain, his father’s illness, his father’s will (Walter took him by the arm and steered him away down the other end of the room, thinking this as good a time as any to remind Matthew of the responsibilities which would accompany his inheritance, but his wife uttered shrill complaints at being abandoned on her sofa and they were obliged to return), the Blitz, the approach of the monsoon, the rubber market and his journey again. Then Walter was summoned to the telephone.
While Walter was absent Mrs Blackett took hold of Matthew’s wrist: she wanted to tell him something. ‘I think you met my children, Monty and Joan, earlier this evening, didn’t you? You know, I hardly think of them as my children at all. We are more like three friends. We discuss, oh, everything together as if we were equals.’
Matthew, who could think of no reply to this confidence, scratched his ear and gazed at Mrs Blackett sympathetically. But where was Kate? he wondered aloud. He had been looking forward to seeing her again. Was she away somewhere?
‘Oh, she was here a moment ago,’ said Mrs Blackett vaguely. There was silence for a few moments. Walter’s voice, speaking emphatically, could be heard from the adjoining room. ‘Yes, just three friends,’ added Mrs Blackett despondently.
Presently she groped for Matthew’s sleeve and with a tug, drew him to his feet. She wanted to introduce him to the people who had just come into the room. But these newcomers, on closer inspection, proved to be merely her children, or ‘friends’, Monty and Joan. She had evidently thought they might be someone more interesting for at the last moment she hung back, murmuring: ‘Oh, I thought it might be Charlie.’
Monty and Joan, ignoring their mother, subsided into armchairs and ordered drinks from a Chinese servant who moved silently from one person to another. They both looked hot, though