The World According to Bertie - Alexander Hanchett Smith [138]
90. Singapore
For Angus Lordie, the return of Cyril from durance vile had been a transforming event. The sense of emptiness, the listlessness, that had afflicted him during the period of Cyril’s absence faded immediately, like a blanketing haar that suddenly lifts to reveal a morning of clarity and splendour. This, he thought, is what it must be like to be given a reprieve, to be told that one was well when one had imagined the worst. Now he had energy.
His first task was to pick up the brush that he had so dispiritedly laid aside. The group portrait over which he had been labouring was finished with alacrity, and the sitters, who had appeared sombre and depressed, were invigorated by a few bold strokes: a smile here, a jaunty dash of colour there – they were easy to rescue. Once that was done, though, there was the question of the next project, and Angus had been giving some thought to that.
The previous night, while taking a bath, it had occurred to him that there was no particular painting to which he could point and say: ‘That is my masterpiece.’ Certainly, he had executed some fine paintings – although he was modest, Angus had enough self-knowledge to recognise that – but the best of these was no more than primus inter pares. Two of them were in the collection of the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, and one of them had gone abroad, to vanish into the private collection of a Singaporean banker – or was it a Singaporean baker? The dealer in Cork Street who had written to tell him of the sale had handwriting which was difficult to interpret, but Angus had hoped that it was a baker rather than a banker. He could imagine his Singaporean baker, a rotund man with that agreeable, genial air that seems to surround those who have made their money in food. He liked to think of him sitting there in his Singaporean fastness, appreciating his painting, nibbling, perhaps, on a plate of pastries.
Of course, Singapore was close to Malacca, where Domenica had conducted her recent researches into the domestic economy of contemporary pirates, and Angus had asked her on her return if she had ventured south.
‘I went there for a few days after I left Malacca,’ she had said. ‘You’ll recall the dénouement of my researches? I felt that after that I should treat myself to a bit of comfort, and so I went to Singapore and stayed in the Raffles Hotel. Such luxury, Angus! The Indian doorman at Raffles has the most wonderful moustache – apparently the most photographed thing in Singapore!’
‘There can’t be much to see if a moustache is the main attraction,’ observed Angus.
‘Well, it’s a small place,’ said Domenica. ‘And a big moustache in a small place . . . Mind you, it’s getting bigger.’
‘The moustache?’
Domenica smiled, but only weakly. There was occasionally something of the schoolboy about Angus, at least in his humour. ‘No, Singapore itself is getting bigger. They have land reclamation projects and they’re inching out all the time. Their neighbours don’t like it.’
Angus was puzzled. ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with them. Presumably they’re reclaiming from the sea.’
‘Yes, they are. But the Indonesians have stopped selling them sand to do the reclamation work. And Malaysia gets jumpy too. They don’t like to see Singapore getting any bigger, even if it’s just a matter of a few acres.’
‘Neighbours can be difficult,’ said Angus.
Domenica thought for a moment of Antonia and the blue Spode cup. There were parallels there, perhaps, with relations between Malaysia and Singapore. ‘Dear Singapore,’ she said. ‘They’re frightfully rich, and as a result nobody in south-east Asia likes them very much. But I do. They make very rude remarks about them; it’s very unfair. And Singapore gets a little bit worried and feels