The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [477]
‘That’s right,’ said the Major, approaching swiftly. ‘You should always hold the rungs, or the “rounds” as we call them, rather than the frame of the ladder. And incidentally never step on to a window-ledge: they tend to collapse. The drill is to put one leg right into the window. Ah, thank heaven for that, it looks as if McMahon has gone to sleep,’ he added. ‘Perhaps this would be a good time to get the pump working. After all, we may not have much more time to practise.’
A gloomy silence had fallen on the Mayfair AFS unit. Even McMahon, muttering in his sleep, looked discouraged. Staring into the distance where the white wedding-cake mass of the Blacketts’ house glimmered above the trees, the Major said: ‘Still, with luck we may never be needed.’
As soon as the afternoon’s drill was over Matthew with a sigh of relief made for the bathroom, which as he had already discovered, had one serious disadvantage: the absence of any running water. A vast green and yellow earthenware jar with a copper ladle stood in one corner. This was a Shanghai jar. The procedure was simple: you dipped the ladle into the jar and poured the water over yourself. Matthew stripped and began sluicing himself; he found the water in the jar tepid but refreshing, nevertheless.
‘An Irishwoman will be fired from a cannon, Monty? Whatever for?’
Monty, who had followed Matthew into the bathroom with an invitation, explained. It was some special show being put on at The Great World in order to raise money for the war against the Jabs in China. The Irishwoman was a human cannonball making a tour of the Far East. And there was also a group of singers called the Da Sousa Sisters. Anyway, Joan had said she was keen to go. That meant they only needed another woman and they could make an evening of it. ‘You don’t happen to know any women, do you?’
‘Monty, I’ve only just arrived.’
‘Never mind then. I expect I’ll be able to scrape one up somewhere. I’ll see you over at our place in a couple of hours, OK?’
‘Oh look, while you’re here, Monty, I’d like you to explain something about our Johore estate that I don’t understand. Why are we replanting at a time when it’s so urgent to produce rubber? I don’t get it.’ The previous day Matthew and the Major had driven over the Causeway and into Johore on the mainland so that Matthew could inspect the Mayfair estate. They had discovered that in a number of places mature trees were being replaced with saplings. When they had questioned Turner, the estate manager whom Matthew had glimpsed on his first evening in Singapore, he had not known the reason for it. He had simply been instructed to replant by Blackett and Webb who, as managing agents, were in control of planting policy.
‘Well,’ replied Monty, sighing heavily, ‘it’s nothing to worry about. It’s all under control.’
‘I’m sure it’s under control. I just want to get the hang of things, that’s all.’
‘Rubber trees don’t last for ever, you know. And as they get older they get brittle. They break in the wind …’
‘But they last for thirty years or so, don’t they? And the trees that are being replaced aren’t that old. Besides, it’s not just an odd tree here and there. It’s being done in sections.’ There was no sound in the bathroom except for a steady splash of water and Monty’s rather laboured breathing. Matthew began to ladle water over himself again.
‘Look here,’ said Monty finally in a rallying tone, ‘I have to admit that your question has stumped me. We have so many estates that it’s hard to know everything about each one. The Mayfair is small beer compared with some of the others. But I tell you what. I’ll get the facts straight before your next Board meeting and we’ll thrash it out there, OK? Now don’t worry about a thing. I’ll be on my way now …’ However, he continued to stand in the doorway watching the water coursing over Matthew’s plump body. Did Matthew know, he enquired with a leer, that in the East there were many stories of beautiful girls who, in order to be cool, climbed into Shanghai jars and then could