The Empire Trilogy

by J. G. Farrell

  ‘This is the street of the charcoal burners. The bloody Chinese live fifty to a room here in some places.’

  Now the clouds of smoke had rolled away to reveal that they were in another, quite different street where from every window and balcony there swung pots of ferns and baskets of flowers. Strings of dim, multi-coloured lanterns hung everywhere. ‘It’s time this lot got weaving with their black-out, too,’ said Monty, and his eyes glittered like cutlery as they roved the balconies above. Suddenly Matthew saw that in the heart of each display of lanterns and flowers there was a beautiful woman set like a jewel.

  ‘Did we have to come this way, Monty?’ grumbled Joan, removing herself from Matthew’s shoulder. ‘Why didn’t we go along Beach Road?’ Ehrendorf stirred at last and looked around with an uncomfortable smile; meanwhile, the Pontiac continued to advance with Joan firmly sandwiched between the two perspiring Englishmen on the back seat. Certain of the women on the balconies above stuck languorous poses, or stretched out a slender leg as if to straighten a stocking. One idly lifted her skirt as if to check that her underwear was all in order (alas, she appeared to have forgotten it altogether); another forced a breast to bulge out of its hiding and palped it thoughtfully.

  ‘Look here, Monty,’ Joan protested, ‘this is a bit thick. You did this on purpose.’

  ‘Did what on purpose?’

  ‘You know perfectly well. And it’s not very clever.’

  ‘In Singapore you can see things they don’t mention at posh finishing schools,’ exulted Monty, ‘but that’s no reason to get in a bate.’ He added for Matthew’s benefit: ‘This is respectable compared with Lavender Street yonder where the troops go. You could have a “colonial experience” there all right!’

  So wide was the Pontiac, so narrow the streets of this part of the city, that it was a miracle they could pass through them at all. Even so, they frequently had to slow to a walking pace while the syce made some fine decisions, an inch on this side, an inch on that. On one such occasion a figure sprang suddenly out of the twilight and landed with a thump on the running-board causing Matthew to flinch back, startled. But the figure proved to be only a small bundle of skin and bone wrapped in rags, a Chinese boy of six or seven years of age. This child clung to the side of the motor-car with one small grubby hand while he cupped the other under Matthew’s nose, at the same time dancing up and down on the running-board with a dreadful urgency. But more distressing still, the boy began a rapid, artificial panting like that of a wounded animal.

  The Pontiac had cleared the last of the narrow streets and could now accelerate … but still the child clung on, panting more desperately than ever. Meanwhile, the syce was steering with one hand and using the other to reach behind Ehrendorf and hammer at the little fingers gripping the chassis.

  ‘Stop!’ cried Matthew to the driver. ‘Stop! … Make him stop!’ he shouted at Ehrendorf. But Ehrendorf sat as if in a trance while the Pontiac hurtled through the dusk swaying violently, the child panting, the syce cursing and hammering.

  ‘No father, no mother, no makan, no whisky soda!’ howled the child.

  Monty had calmly selected a couple of coins from his pocket and was holding them out, almost in the child’s reach, and making him grab for them with his free hand. Having enjoyed this game for a little he negligently tossed the coins out of the speeding car. A moment later the boy dropped off the running-board and vanished into the rushing darkness in their wake.

  ‘That’s one of their favourite tricks. The word makan means “grub” by the way, and you could probably do with some yourself, I should think. We thought we’d take you first to the Mayfair to leave your things and then on to our house for some supper.’

  They were now on a wider thoroughfare; in front of them rattled a green trolley-bus: from the tips of its twin poles a cascade of blue-white sparks dribbled against the darkening sky. Despite the advance of darkness the heat seemed only to increase. The sun had long since dropped out of sight somewhere behind Sumatra to the west but in the sky it had left a vast striated blanket of magenta which seemed to radiate a heat of its own like the bars of an electric grill.

  Soon they were on a long straight road, still lined with Chinese shophouses but with here and there an occasional block of European shops or offices. This was Orchard Road, Monty explained, and that drive that curved away to the right led up to Government House. The large white building a little further along was the Cold Storage: in there homesick Britons could buy food that reminded them of home.

  Presently they turned off Orchard Road and found themselves in a residential district of winding, tree-lined streets and detached bungalows with now and then a small block of flats set amidst tennis courts. They lurched up a sharply curving slope past a tiny banana plot.

  ‘It may not be much … but given the hordes of brass hats commandeering living quarters in Singapore these days one is lucky to find a roof at all. Here we are, anyway.’

  The Pontiac keeled over sharply and pulled off the road with groaning tyres. The Mayfair Building was a vast and rambling bungalow built on a score of fat, square pillars. Because the ground here was on something of a slope these pillars grew taller as they approached the front of the building, exaggerating their perspective and giving them the appearance of a platoon on the march beneath an enormous burden. The bungalow itself was encased in louvred wooden shutters and open balconies, along the sides of which partly unrolled blinds of split-bamboo hung beneath the great jutting eaves. The apex of the bungalow’s roof of loose red tiles was left open in the manner of a dovecot to allow warm air to escape, and was crowned by a second, smaller roof of red tiles. Despite the metropolitan grandeur of its name the Mayfair Building had a slightly decrepit air.

  While Joan performed a quick and efficient inspection of herself in a hand-mirror, Matthew got out of the car and prepared to follow Monty.

  ‘I won’t come in with you, Matthew,’ Ehrendorf said. ‘I’m busy right now but I’ll see you later. We’ll get together real soon, OK?’ Now that he, too, had got out of the car and stood there, an elegant figure in his uniform, it seemed to Matthew that he looked more his former cheerful and confident self. They shook hands, agreed to telephone each other and then Matthew followed Monty around the side of the building to the main entrance. Here he glimpsed a tennis court, disused, from whose baked mud surface giant thistles had grown up and now waited like silent skeleton players in the gloom. Beyond the tennis court the compound was walled in on each side by a powerful tropical undergrowth and the encroaching jungle.

  Gesturing in the darkness Monty said: ‘There’s a recreation hut and a lot of gym stuff over there. I expect you know that your father was keen on that sort of thing? What? You didn’t? He was very partial to rippling muscles and gleaming torsos.’ Monty chuckled cautiously. ‘This way. Watch your step.’

  They made their way up protesting wooden steps to a front door that stood open and was plainly two or three inches too big for its frame. As Monty dragged it open further the hinges shrieked. He went inside. Matthew, having paused to polish his glasses, was about to follow him when he heard a faint scuffling sound from the darkness on the other side of the house. He heard the sound of heavy, indignant breathing, then silence followed and, after a few moments, a long, melancholy sigh, barely audible against the hum of the tropical night. In another moment he heard footsteps and Joan emerged from the gloom.

  The interior of the bungalow exuded the unloved air of houses that have had to endure temporary occupation by a succession of transient lodgers. Matthew surmised that his father had not taken a great interest in his material surroundings.

  ‘What a dump!’ said Joan, wrinkling her perfect nose as she peered in.

  ‘It’s seen better days, I admit,’ agreed Monty. In the obscurity Matthew sensed rather than saw that the furiture was chipped, the paintwork peeling and the woodwork so warped that drawers and cupboards would no longer quite open, nor windows altogether close. He was surprised to think tha
t it was in these modest surroundings that his father, a man of wealth, had spent so much of the latter part of his life. ‘Perhaps the old chap was not such an ogre after all.’

  As he advanced into a wide verandah room scattered with darker masses which might be furniture, two floorboards sang in counterpoint under his shoes. A middle-aged man who had evidently been brooding by himself on the verandah in the now almost complete darkness came on a serpentine course through the sagging rattan furniture to meet them, snapping on a light switch as he passed and bathing the room in an electric light which at first flickered like a cinema projector but presently settled down to a more steady glow.

  ‘Major Brendan Archer,’ said Monty casting his sun-helmet away into the shadows. ‘This is Matthew Webb.’ He added to Matthew: ‘The Major has been more or less running things since your father’s illness.’

  Matthew and the Major shook hands. The Major came vaguely to attention and said indistinctly: ‘I’d like to say how sorry … hm … your father …’ With a muffled bark indicating emotion he stood at ease again The Major had a mild, vaguely worried appearance. His very thin hair had been carefully smoothed with water and brushed straight back, revealing only the finest of partings. It was supplemented by a rather doleful moustache.

  ‘I see you’re looking at my moustache,’ the Major said, causing Matthew to start guiltily. ‘That blighter Cheong got at it with the scissors. He said he’d be careful but of course he got carried away. Took too much off one side.’ It was true. The Major’s moustache, when you looked at it, was definitely lopsided. The young people peered at it respectfully.

  ‘How sensitive people are about their moustaches out here, thought Matthew. ‘It must be the climate.’

  ‘Why don’t you prune the other side a bit?’ suggested Monty. ‘Even it up?’

  ‘Mustn’t look like Hitler.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ agreed Monty. To Matthew he explained: ‘The Major’s been trying to re-enlist for active service. He can’t be bothered with the Japs. Defend the old homeland, eh, Major?’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid the war will be over by the time I get back to England. One worries, you know, about people at home in the air-raids. I have a couple of young nieces in London … well, not really nieces … more god-daughters than nieces, in South Kensington, actually, though strictly speaking …’

  Monty interrupted: ‘You don’t say so, Major? I’ve heard that the entire might of the Luftwaffe is being thrown against South Kensington.’ To Matthew he said: ‘Come on, I’ll show you around quickly and then we’ll beetle off.’ They left the Major looking baffled.

  ‘Old bore,’ said Monty.

  As they made their way round the bungalow Matthew was conscious of Joan’s blank eyes and neatly plucked eyebrows turning towards him from time to time, but she still had not addressed a word directly to him. Swinging louvred shutters divided one room from the next, there seemed to be no doors here except for the bathroom and one elaborately marked ‘Board of Directors’. They peered into his room which contained nothing except a long, deeply scratched table and a dozen or so chairs. Above the table a huge electric fan laboured noisily. Monty switched on the light at the door. A wiry, middle-aged man clad only in shorts lay stretched on the table, asleep with his mouth open. Monty led the way over to inspect him, saying: ‘This is Dupigny. I gather he’s supposed to have some sort of job here, God knows what, though. Hey, wake up!’ Monty shook him. ‘François is what is known as a “sleeping partner”,’ he jeered. ‘Come on, wake up! The Japs have landed in the garden!’ But the man on the table merely uttered a groan and turned over. They retreated, Monty saying over his shoulder: ‘François used to be a big-wig in the Indo-Chinese Government until Pétain booted him out. He’s convinced Jap parachutists are going to land any moment.’

  Now at last they were approaching the rooms which had been set aside for the Chairman: a swinging door upholstered in green felt had once divided this part of the bungalow from the rest but now, removed from its hinges, it was merely propped against the wall. Beyond it, nevertheless, one could discern an improvement in the quality and condition of the furnishings. First, they came to an outer room used as an office. Matthew had expected a room that was perfectly bleak and bare of ornament, to match his own view of his father’s character. To his surprise the walls were crowded with pictures and photographs of all kinds. He barely had time to glance at them; besides, the presence of the young Blacketts inhibited him. But what was he to make of this sepia photograph showing his father perhaps thirty years ago, holding a tennis racket and with his arm cheerfully around the neck of his smiling partner or opponent? Or of this one of his father good-humouredly presenting something to a group of neatly suited Chinese, each of them with his trousers at half mast? Surely the old tyrant had not smiled more than once in his entire life!

  They peered into the bedroom which lay beyond, a great high-ceilinged room which contained two massive Edwardian wardrobes, a narrow iron bed with a mosquito net hanging knotted above it like a furled sail, and a bedside table on which medicine bottles still crowded around the stem of a table-light. Matthew, harrowed by the sight of these medicine bottles, withdrew to the office once more. Joan had remained in the background plucking with finger and thumb at the back of her turban. The driver had brought in Matthew’s suitcases and now carried them into the bedroom.

  ‘There should be a Chinese boy around somewhere. He’ll unpack for you. Let’s go and get something to eat.’

  A balding young man was hovering diffidently at the door of the office as they passed through. He cleared his throat when he saw Monty and said: ‘Monty, I wonder could I have a quick word with you?’

  ‘No, you bloody can’t. I’m busy. And what are you doing here, anyway? You’re supposed to be out on the bloody estate. We don’t pay you to hang around Singapore.’

  ‘I just came in this evening, Monty. You see, it’s rather important and I had already mentioned it some time ago to Mr Webb before his illness …’

  ‘You just came in this evening, did you, Turner? Well, you can bugger off back this evening, too. If you aren’t satisfied with your pay you can send us a letter of resignation and join the bloody Army. Got it?’

  ‘But I’ve just spoken to Major Archer and he …’

  ‘I don’t care who you’ve spoken to. I’m telling you to hop it. Get going. Scram!’

  ‘I could eat a horse,’ said Joan suddenly, addressing Matthew for the first time and even smiling at him. ‘I only had a sandwich at the Cold Storage for lunch. Actually, I’m trying to lose weight. How much do you think I weigh? Go on, have a guess.’ Matthew could only blink at her, however, too astonished to reply.

  The young man’s face had turned very pale and his forehead glistened with perspiration: there was clearly nothing for it but for him to depart, and he did so, but without making any abrupt movement. His image seemed gradually to grow indistinct until presently one could make out pieces of furniture where he had been standing and then he had faded away completely.

  ‘Eight stone exactly!’ exclaimed Joan in triumph, clapping her hands. ‘I knew you couldn’t. Nobody can. You see, it’s partly the way I dress.’

  ‘That miserable cove,’ Monty explained in a self-satisfied tone, ‘is Robin Turner, the manager of your estate in Johore, though you’d hardly think so the amount of time he spends in Singapore. That little so-and-so and I were at school together and I pulled a few strings to get him a job out here when jobs weren’t easy to come by. What d’you know? Within a couple of years he’d got himself married to a stengah and his career out here was as good as finished.’

  ‘A stengah?’

  ‘Half one thing and half the other … a Eurasian … a mixed drink! You can tell ’em by their chichi accent … sing-song like Welsh. He’s been trying to get her a job as a governess in a white household but nobody wants their kids to end up with that accent … no fear! In this part of the world, Matthew, people don’t mind who you have your fun
with, provided you do it discreetly (they’re pretty broad-minded about that), but they get shirty if you try to mix things socially. Quite a few young fools like Turner have lost their jobs or missed promotion with European companies because they thought they could suit themselves. Young Turner had to resign from the clubs he’d joined, of course, double quick. I warned him it would happen but no, he knew better.’ Monty heaved a sigh: his good-nature had been tried to the limit. ‘Anyway, you’ve seen the set-up. Let’s go and get something to eat.’

  Matthew glanced at Joan. Her moment of animation had passed; now she was looking down her nose and plucking delicately at her chest, evidently rearranging whatever she wore under her frock. ‘Isn’t François supposed to be coming?’ she wanted to know.

  On their way back to the verandah they came across Dupigny, now clad in a billowing white suit, tying his tie by the light of a candle. He was a gaunt, dignified man in his fifties. He said in careful English: ‘I shall follow you, Monty. I look forward with delicious alarm to discover what your cook has prepared for us.’

  15

  ‘My dear boy, it gives me great pleasure to welcome you at last to this house and, I should say, to these Straits Settlements which your father did so much to build up in his lifetime.’ Monty and Joan had slipped off to change, leaving Matthew to introduce himself as best he could to the elder Blacketts whom he had with some difficulty located in a palatial drawing-room. He had often tried to picture Walter Blackett: he had supposed him to be someone very large and commanding. As it turned out, the man with whom he had just shaken hands was certainly commanding, but only his head was large: it loomed over a compact body and short legs and was covered in thick bristles of white hair which had collected here and there like drifts of unmelted snow on a stark mountainside; further white bristles supplied moustache and eyebrows: from beneath the latter, eyes of an alarming pale blue examined Matthew with interest. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘and meet Sylvia.’