The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [480]
‘But Duff and Diana are coming,’ said Mrs Blackett, ‘aren’t you even going to stay and say hello to them?’
But Monty regretted that they had not a moment to spare. Yes, he would see that Joan was not home too late and, yes, he did have the keys of the Pontiac. If you once got stuck with those ‘talkative buggers’ from Westminster, he explained to Matthew on the way out, there was no getting away from the ‘dreary sods’, the evening was as good as ruined.
Standing, for some reason, bolt upright on the back seat of the Pontiac and shading his eyes with his hand, or perhaps saluting although there was nobody in the vicinity except the Malay syce, was a tall, thin Army officer of about Monty’s age. This was none other than that Sinclair Sinclair with whom Joan had enjoyed such an agreeable voyage from Shanghai some years earlier; in the meantime he had exchanged his career in the Foreign Office for a commission in the Army where, thanks to family connections and the dearth of regular officers which attended the outbreak of war, his rise had been swift; now here he was, instead of fighting Jerry in North Africa, called to put his experience of the Far East at the disposal of Malaya Command and pretty fed up, too (as he had explained to Joan), at finding himself a member of the ‘Chairborne Division’!
‘Thank heaven!’ he cried while they were still at some distance. ‘I thought you’d never come. I was beginning to feel like a ca … ca … ca … person abandoned on a desert island!’ and he uttered a shrieking laugh, like the working of a dry pump, and with the same sort of hollow gulping coming from his midriff.
‘I’m Matthew Webb,’ said Matthew, since the young Blacketts, intent on dismissing the syce and installing themselves in the Pontiac, had not bothered to introduce them.
‘Suh … suh … suh … suh … suh … suh …’ Matthew was obliged to pause with his hand in the officer’s while this long string of redundant syllables was dragged out of his mouth like entrails, and his smile grew a little fixed as he waited. But finally, with a gulp and a snap of his teeth, the officer was able to bite off the string and exclaim: ‘… inclair Sinclair!’ Matthew, who had taken an immediate liking to him, nodded encouragingly, wondering whether Sinclair was his first name, last name or both at once. It seemed better not to risk an enquiry.
This time Monty was driving, but no less recklessly than the Malay syce had done on the previous occasion that Matthew had been in this car. As the Pontiac surged down the drive into humid evening and then turned with screaming tyres on to the road, Monty thumped the steering-wheel jubilantly chanting ‘Run, rabbit, run!’ Joan sat in front with her slender, sunburned arm gracefully resting on the back of the seat behind her brother. She was wearing a plain, short-sleeved dress of blue cotton, beautifully ironed. How fresh she looked! ‘She toils not, neither does she spin,’ thought Matthew, gazing in wonder at the beautiful creases in the starched cloth. She turned, her hair tossing in the wind as they hurtled down Grange Road, and gave him a quick, sly smile.
‘I’m going to have to duh … duh … dash off early this evening,’ shouted Sinclair. ‘I go on duty at midnight.’
‘I knew it,’ said Monty. ‘You’re going to be a bore, Sinclair. I feel it in my bones.’
‘No, I’m not,’ protested Sinclair. ‘Must watch out for the jolly old Jap, though.’
‘You are going to be a bore then.’ Monty fell into a moody silence until they were approaching The Great World. ‘It looks as if we’ll have to leave the car and walk. It’s been like this every night for the past few weeks with the bloody troops arriving.’
‘By the way,’ said Matthew, ‘Jim Ehrendorf wanted to come so I said we’d meet him at the gate.’
‘Oh no! That’s all we needed,’ grumbled Monty exchanging a glance with his sister. ‘What did you do that for?’
They parked the Pontiac in River Valley Road and proceeded on foot. Women shuffled along in the crowd carrying on their backs doll-like babies with shaven heads, some asleep, some peering out