The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [470]
‘I leave you to deal with him,’ Walter said to his wife with unexpected anger, rising from his chair.
‘Oh, really, Uncle Charlie, what have you done now?’ Kate said, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘And you haven’t taken your pill.’ The guests filed out in silence, leaving Charlie staring sulkily at the saturated table-cloth.
Matthew would have liked to retire to bed at this point: he had had a long and tiring day. But it seemed that the Blacketts had not yet finished with him for Monty suggested a quick stroll in the garden. Together they stepped out into the warm, perfumed night accompanied by a dull-eyed Joan, yawning again behind scarlet fingernails. Birds uttered low cries, insects clicked and whirred around them and once a great patch of black velvet swooped, slipped and folded against the starry sky. Some sort of fruit bat, said Joan.
Although flanked by the young Blacketts, Matthew found himself peering uneasily into the vibrating darkness: he was not yet accustomed to the tropical night. As they sauntered through the potentially hungry shadows in the direction of the Orchid Garden he tried to recall whether he had once read something about ‘flying snakes’ or whether it was simply his imagination. And did fruit bats only eat fruit or did they sometimes enjoy a meal of flesh and blood? He was so absorbed in this speculation that when, presently, he felt something slip into his hand he jumped, thinking it might be a ‘flying snake’. But it was only Joan’s soft fingers. To cover his embarrassment he asked her about fruit bats. Oh, they were perfectly harmless, she replied, despite their frightening, Dracula-like wings.
But, Monty was saying with a laugh, what did Matthew think about another weird creature, namely their Uncle Charlie? Did Matthew know that he had been a cricket Blue at Cambridge? For he had been, though one might not think so to look at him now.
‘Does he work for Blackett and Webb?’
Monty and Joan hooted with laughter at this idea. ‘Father wouldn’t let him within a mile of the place. No, he’s in the Indian Army, the Punjabis. That was OK while they were stuck on the Khyber Pass or wherever they normally spend their time. But then, disaster! Charlie’s regiment gets posted to Malaya. Father can’t abide him, as you may have gathered. He has to put up with him, though, because of Mother who insists on inviting him to stay whenever he has any leave. She’s afraid he will go off the rails if she doesn’t watch over him. She may be right at that. Once he spent a week in Penang and we kept getting telephone calls asking us if we were prepared to vouch for a Captain Charles Tyrrell who was running up bills right left and centre. Then he started tampering with someone else’s wife and there was the most frightful palaver over that. Father had to go up and straighten it all out. You can imagine how delighted he was. Because, of course, we’re well known in this country and gossip spreads like wildfire.’
‘Oh, and he’s a poet, too,’ said Joan, giving Matthew’s perspiring hand a little squeeze.
‘That’s right. He wrote a poem about a place in Spain …’
‘Guernica.’
‘Yes, that’s it, about the place Joan just said. Mother had to warn us all not to laugh because he took it so seriously. He’s quite a card.’
Matthew had only been able to give part of his attention to what he was being told about Charlie because of the sensations that were spreading up through his body from the hand which Joan was holding. Not content with the damp, inert clasp of two palms, Joan’s fingers had become active, alternately squeezing his own and trying to burrow into the hollow of his palm. He could not help thinking: ‘If Monty weren’t here …’ and his heart pounded at the thought of what he and Joan might get up to. But Monty was there; and he showed no sign of noticing the delicious hand-squeezings that were going on in the darkness. Presently he said: ‘We’d better be going inside. They’ll be leaving soon.’ With a final squeeze Joan’s hand abandoned