The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [590]
Meanwhile, the speaker’s place had been taken by other shadowy figures and Vera, tugging at his arm, was anxious to gain his attention because the sighing, sing-song voice of her friend had not ceased all this time and by now had built up a considerable backlog of complaints. ‘He says Rubber Research Institute run by Government does not help smallholders, it helps only estates. He says smallholders pay for Institute from taxes just like European estates, but Institute only gives new, very good rubber plants to estates! What they call ‘budwood” …’
‘He means these new high-yielding clones?’
‘Yes, budwood … he means new clones … He telling truth!’ sang a chorus of skeletons and moribunds who had crowded around Matthew and were tugging at his garments to attract his attention …
‘He says smallholders producing more rubber per acre than estates but given much smaller share!’
‘Look here, Vera, I’m afraid I shall have to be going now. I’m on duty this evening and I’m late already …’
‘He says bloody big swindle … he says …’
For the past few moments, extenuated though he was by his long list of complaints, Vera’s friend had resumed his petulant search in the bundle of rags he was using as a pillow; now, with a final effort which seemed as if it might capsize him completely, his trembling fingers had fastened on what they were looking for. This proved to be a yellowing page of newsprint which he held up, quivering, to Matthew. Matthew took it, straining his eyes in the half-light to see what it was. He could just make out that it was the editorial opinion of The Planter and that the date on the top of the page was June 1930. ‘I’m afraid I can’t quite see what it says,’ he murmured apologetically. But one of the skeletons at his shoulder, with a prodigious effort which seemed to drain him of his last resources of energy, had succeeded in dragging the head of a match against the sandpaper of a matchbox held in the shaking hands of two of his companions. The match flared. Matthew read aloud as rapidly as he could …
‘ “In the hands of the producers of budwood …” ’
‘He means Government Research Institute …’
‘I say, please don’t interrupt me because otherwise I won’t be able to finish this before the match goes out,’ protested Matthew. ‘Well where was I … “In the hands of the producers of budwood lies the decision whether rubber planting will, in the far and remote future, become a native industry, or remain an asset of immense value to those European races to whose administrative skill and financial acumen … (Oh dear, I don’t like the sound of this) … the development of Malaya and of the Dutch East Indies has been due …” ’
‘More, sir, more!’ croaked his audience.
‘ “… It is the honest unbiased opinion of many leading men outside the rubber industry that the less the smallholder has to do with rubber the better it will be in the long run for himself and for all others engaged in rubber production …” ’ The match died. Matthew was left with the piece of paper in his fingers. He sighed.
All around him in the semi-darkness, as if summoned by the last trump for a final dispensation of justice over the doings of this imperfect world, supine figures were sitting up and casting off their shrouds and bandages, while others were clambering down from the tiers of shelves on which they had been stretched. He sighed again and looked down at his watch as they crowded round him.
44
Towards the end of the year Sir Robert Brooke-Popham had been replaced as Commander-in-Chief Far East by General Pownall. Although he had been on friendly terms with Brooke-Popham and his successor was unknown to him, Walter was nevertheless relieved to see the departure of his friend for it had grown increasingly clear that Brooke-Popham was not comfortable in the rôle to which he had been assigned. But if this change of commanders had been expected to exert a beneficial effect on the course of the campaign there was no immediate sign