by Jane Gardam
Old Filth walked his friend down to the gate. Beside it stood Veneering’s gate, overhung by ragged yews. A short length of drainpipe, to take a morning newspaper, was attached to Veneering’s gate. It was identical to the one that had lain by Old Filth’s gate for many years. “He copied my drainpipe,” said Old Filth. “He never had an original notion.”
“I’ve half a mind to call,” said Christopher.
“Well, you needn’t come and see me again if you do,” said courteous Old Filth.
Seated in his car in the road the friend considered the mystery of what convictions survive into dotage and how wise he had been to stay on in Hong Kong.
“You don’t feel like a visit, Eddie?” he asked out of the car window. “Why not come out for Christmas? It’s not so much changed that there’ll ever be anywhere in the world like it.”
But Filth said he never stirred at Christmas. Just a taxi to the White Hart at Salisbury, for luncheon. Good place. No paper hats. No streamers.
“I remember Betty with streamers tangled up in her hair and her pearls and gold chains. In Hong Kong.”
But Filth thanked him and declined and waved him off.
On Christmas morning, Filth thought again of Christopher, as he was waiting for the taxi to the White Hart, watching from a window whose panes were almost blocked with snow, snow that had been falling when he’d opened his bedroom curtains five hours ago at seven o’clock. Big, fast, determined flakes. They fell and fell. They danced. They mesmerised. After a few moments you couldn’t tell if they were going up or down. Thinking of the road at the end of his drive, the deep hollow there, he wondered if the taxi would make it. At twelve-fifteen he thought he might ring and ask, but waited until twelve-thirty as it seemed tetchy to fuss. He discovered the telephone was dead.
“Ah,” he said. “Ha.”
There were mince pies and a ham shank. A good bottle somewhere. He’d be all right. A pity though. Break with tradition.
He stood staring at the Christmas cards. Fewer again this year. As for presents, nothing except one from his cousin Claire. Always the same. Two handkerchiefs. More than he ever sent her, but she had had the pearls. He must send her some flowers. He picked up one large glossy card and read A Merry Christmas from The Ideal Tailor, Century Arcade, Star Building, Hong Kong to an old and esteemed client. Every year. Never failed. Still had his suits. Twenty years old. He wore them sometimes in summer. Snowflakes danced around a Chinese house on stilts. Red Chinese characters. A rosy Father Christmas waving from a corner. Stilts. Houses on stilts.
Suddenly he missed Betty. Longed for her. Felt that if he turned round now, quickly, there she would be.
But she was not.
Outside there was a strange sound, a long, sliding noise and a thump. A heavy thump. It might well be the taxi skidding on the drive and hitting the side of the house. Filth opened the front door but saw nothing but snow. He stepped quickly out upon his doorstep to look down the drive, and behind him the front door swung to, fastening with a solid, pre-War click.
He was in his bedroom slippers. Otherwise he was dressed in trousers, a singlet—which he always wore, being a gentleman, thank God—shirt and tie and the thin cashmere cardigan Betty had bought him years ago. Already it was sopped through.
Filth walked delicately along the side of the house in his slippers, bent forward, screwing his old eyes against the snow, to see if by any chance . . . but he knew that the back door was locked, and the French windows. He turned off towards the tool shed over the invisible slippery grass. Locked. He thought of the car in the garage. He hadn’t driven now for some time, not since the days of terror. Mrs. Thing did the shopping now. It was scarcely used. But perhaps the garage—?
The garage was locked.
Nothing for it but to get down the drive somehow and wait for the taxi under Veneering’s yews.
In his tiptoe way he passed the heap of snow that had fallen off the roof and had sounded like a slithering car. “I’m a bloody old fool,” he said.
From the gate he looked out upon the road. It was a gleaming sheet of snow in both directions. Nothing had disturbed it for many hours. All was silent, as death. Filth turned and looked up Veneering’s drive.
That too was pristine silk, unmarked by birds, unpocked by fallen berries. Snow and snow. Falling and falling. Thick, wet, ice cold. His thinning hair ice cold. Snow had gathered inside his collar, his cardigan, his slippers. All ice cold. His knobbly hands were freezing as he grasped first one yew branch and then the next. Hand over hand he made his way up Veneering’s drive.
He’ll be with the son, thought Old Filth. That or there’ll be some ghastly house party going on. Golfers. Old cobwebs from the Temple. Smart solicitors. Gin.
But the house when it came in view was dark and seemed empty. Abandoned for years.
Old Filth rang the bell and stood on the porch. The bell tinkled somewhere far away inside, like Betty’s at the rosewood dining-table in the Mid Levels.
And what the hell do I do now? He’s probably gone to that oaf Christopher and they are carousing in the Peninsular Hotel. It’ll be—what? Late night now. They’ll have reached the brandy and cigars—the cigars presented in a huge shallow box, the maître d’ bowing like a priest before the sacrament. The vulgarity. Probably kill the pair of them. Hullo?
A light had been switched on inside the house and a face peered from behind a curtain in a side window. Then the front door was opened slightly by a bent old man with a strand or two of blond hair.
“Filth? Come in.”
“Thank you.”
“No coat?”
“I just stepped across. I was looking out for my taxi. For the White Hart. Christmas luncheon. Just hanging about. I thought I’d call and . . .”
“Merry Christmas. Good of you.”
They stood in the drear, unhollied hall.
“I’ll get you a towel. Better take off your cardigan. I’ll find you another. Whiskey?”
In the brown and freezing sitting-room a jigsaw puzzle only one-eighth completed was laid out over a huge table. Table and jigsaw were both white with dust. The venture looked hopeless.
“Too much damned sky,” said Veneering as they stood contemplating it. “I’ll put another bar on. I don’t often sit in here. You must be cold. Maybe we’ll hear your car from here, but I doubt it. I’d guess it won’t get through.”
“I wonder if I might use your phone? Mine seemed to be defunct.”
“Mine too, I’d guess, if yours is,” said Veneering. “By all means try.”
The phone was dead.
They sat before two small, red wire-worms stretched across the front of an electric fire. Some sort of antique, thought Filth. Haven’t seen one like that in sixty years. Chambers in the years of the Great Fog.
In a display case on the chimney-piece he saw a pair of exotic chandelier earrings. The fire, the earrings, the whiskey, the jigsaw, the silence, the eerily-falling snow made him all at once want to weep.
“I was sorry to hear about Betty,” said Veneering.
“I was sorry about Elsie,” said Filth, remembering her name and her still and beautiful—and unhappy—Chinese face. “Your son—?”
“Dead,” said Veneering. “Killed. Army.”
“I am most terribly sorry. So dreadfully sorry. I hadn’t heard.”
“We don’t hear much these days,” said Veneering. “Maybe we don’t want to. We had too many Hearings.”
Filth watched the arthritic stooped old figure shamble across the room to the decanter.
“Not good for the bones, this climate,” said Veneering, shambling back.
“Did you think of staying on?”
“Good God, no.”
“It suited you so well.” Then Filth said something very odd. “Better than us, I always thought. Better than me, anyway. And Betty never talked about it. She was very Scotch, you know.”
“Plenty of Scots in Hong Kong,” said Veneering. “You two seemed absolutely welded, melded, into the
place. Betty and her Chinese jewellery.”
“Oh, she tried,” said Filth sadly. “She was very faithful.”
“Another?”
“I should be getting home.”
It dawned on Old Filth that he would have to ask a favour of Veneering. He had already lost a good point to him by calling round wet to the skin. Veneering was still no fool. He’d spotted the telephone business. It would be difficult to regain his position. Maybe make something out of being the first to break the silence? Maturity. Magnanimity. Water under the bridge. Christmas Day. Hint at a larger spirit?
He wouldn’t mention locking himself out.
But how was he to get home? Mrs. Thing’s key was three miles off and she wasn’t coming in again until New Year’s Day. He could hardly stay here—Good God! With Veneering!
“I’ve thought of coming to see you,” said Veneering. “Several times as a matter of fact, this past year. Getting on, both of us.”
Old Filth was silent. He himself had not thought of doing anything of the sort, and could not pretend.
“Couldn’t think of a good excuse,” said Veneering. “Bit afraid of the reception. Bloody hot-tempered type, I used to be. We weren’t exactly similar.”
“I’ve forgotten what type I was,” said Filth, again surprising himself. “Not much of anything, I expect.”
“Bloody good advocate,” said Veneering.
“You made a damn good judge,” said Filth, remembering that this was true. “Better than I was.”
“Only excuse I could think of was a feeble one,” said Veneering. “There’s a key of yours here hanging in my pantry. Front door. Chubb. Your address is on the label. Must have been here for years. Neighbours being neighbourly long ago, I expect. Maybe you have one of mine?”
“No,” said Filth. “No, I’ve not seen one.”
“Could have let myself in, any time,” said Veneering. “Murdered you in your bed.” There was a flash of the old black mischief. “Must you go? I don’t think there’s going to be a taxi. It would never make the hill. I’ll get that key—unless you want me to hold on to it. For an emergency?” (Another hard look.)
“No,” said Filth with Court decorum. “No, I’ll take it and see if it works.”
On Veneering’s porch, wearing Veneering’s (ghastly) over-coat, Filth paused. The snow was easing. He heard himself say, “Boxing Day tomorrow. If you’re on your own, I’ve a ham shank and some decent claret.”
“Pleasure,” said Veneering.
On his own doorstep Filth thought: Will it turn?
It did.
The house was beautifully warm but he made up the fire. The water would be hot, thank God. Get out of these clothes. Hello? What?
He thought he heard something in the kitchen. Hello? Yes?
He went through and found it empty. The snow had stopped at last and the windows were squares of black light. He thought, peering forward into the gloaming: Someone is looking in. But he could see no signs of footprints anywhere, and drew the curtains. He peeped into cupboards to make sure of things for tomorrow. Didn’t want to look a fool. There was a can of shark’s fin soup. Tin of crab-meat. Good rice. Package of parmesan. Avocado. Fine. Fine.
Behind him in the hall he heard something like a chuckle.
“Who the hell is that? Hello?” (Had the fellow had two keys? Murdered you in your bed.)
“Edward, Edward, stop these fantasies! You are too old. You are no longer seven.” A man’s voice. Good God, I’m going senile. “Yes, Sir,” he said. “Kettle. Hot water bottle. Bath. I’m old.”
The phone rang.
“You back safely?” asked Veneering’s voice. “I thought I’d try the phone. We’re in touch again.”
“Oh. Thanks, Veneering. One o’clock tomorrow?”
“Yes. Would you like me to bring my chessmen?”
“Got some. Maybe next time.”
“Next time.”
So it wasn’t Veneering, he ruminated in the bath, idly watching his old greying pubic hair floating like fern on the delicious hot water. Steam filled the bathroom. He almost slept.
Better get out. Somehow. Or it’ll be all over.
He turned his lanky frame so that he was on all fours, facing the porcelain floor of the bath, balanced on his spread hands and his sharp knees (one of them none too excellent), and slithered his feet about to get some sort of purchase near the taps. Slowly the long length of him arose, feet squeaking a little. He pulled the plug out and watched the soapy water begin to drain, bubbling round his now rosy feet. He thought of another river. Black and brown babies splashing. A girl all warmth and laughter, his head against her thighs. The water gurgled away.
Getting more difficult. Must get a shower. Won’t have one of those bloody mats with suction pads, though. Won’t have what they call the Social Services. Veneering doesn’t, you can see. Mind, Veneering doesn’t look as if he has baths at all. Poor old bugger.
Wrapped in a white bath towel he padded about. Slippers, bath robe. Perfectly well. Take a little something to bed? No— eat it over the telly? Anchovy toast. Tea—enough whiskey. Ha!—blaze up, fire. Mustn’t drop off.
“Don’t drop off,” said a woman’s voice. “Don’t drop off the perch! Not yet.”
“Hey, hello, what? Betty?”
But again, nobody there.
Hope I’m not feverish.
“And I’m not being a fool,” he shouted to the door of Betty’s old bedroom and shut his own bedroom door behind him.
Perfectly in charge.
The bed was warm, and his own. Extraordinary really, the idea of sharing a bed. Bourgeois. Something Betty and I never talked about.
“This is not the time of frenzy,” he heard himself say out loud as the images of the day merged into dreams. He was clinging to someone on a boat-deck and the sea a silver skin. There was screaming but it was somewhere else and hardly woke him. “We dealt with all that,” he said, “in what they call my long, untroubled and uneventful life.”
“Sleep, Filth,” said a voice. “Nobody knew you like I did.”
Which of them said that? he wondered.
KOTAKINAKULU
Yes, yes, yes,” said Auntie May of the Baptist Mission, striding up the gangplank. “Now then, here we are. Excellent.”
The motor launch, now and then trying its engine to see whether it would be safe to let it die, stirred the black water around it, rocked and snorted. All across the wide river, small waves slapped and tipped. Heat seemed to drip from the trees like oil. It was summer, the monsoon coming, and when it did the river traffic would die. This was why they were getting the baby home at only one week old. Otherwise he would have been stranded in the Port where he had gone to be born. Here they were, safely home, but it had been a near thing. A two-day journey and Auntie May, after she had seen him safely to his father’s house, would have to make it back again herself, alone and at once.
On the journey out to the Port not much more than a week ago the baby not yet born had travelled the river in a native boat with his mother and the Malay woman who was now climbing the grass ladder to the landing stage, sorrowful and frightened, behind Auntie May. She had carried her own baby for she was the wet nurse who had been taken to Mrs. Feathers’s confinement in case of an emergency should Mrs. Feathers have been unable to feed the child herself.
Nobody had expected Mrs. Feathers to die. The Clinic at the Port was good, the Baptist Mission efficient and known to her already for she had been a nurse before marriage to Feathers, the District Officer of Kotakinakulu province. She was a tough, lean Scot, like her husband, solid as a rock. She had nursed him through his war wounds of 1914, quieted his shell-shock, coped with his damaged ankle, borne his mad rages, loved him. She had been born in the East herself, loved the climate, the river, the people, and had never ailed for a day of this her first and straightforward pregnancy. She had brought to the Clinic only the wet-nurse and her prayer book, knowing that she would be back within the month. As she left she
had been helped a little into the open boat but had not looked back. The landing stage stood on its high crooked stilts with only one person watching the boat disappear round the bend of the river—a girl of twelve called Ada, the wet-nurse’s eldest child. As stick-thin as the landing stage itself, the girl wound her arms about the rough branches and stayed long after the boat had disappeared.
Comfortable in the long low boat, Mrs. Feathers in her loose cotton dress—never a sarong—she was the District Officer’s wife—had scarcely looked pregnant. The baby had dropped low in the womb and become very quiet, which its mother knew meant the birth was imminent. In the Long House where they had rested that night, she had not worried that the child might be born early. With the peaceful happiness that often predicts labour, she had smiled and knitted a tiny lace jacket, fondly taking a strand of wool at a time and loosening it, holding it high. She had knitted most of the night, listening to the baboon on the roof clacking like a typewriter in short, unaccountable snatches of baboon monologue.
The wet-nurse, her own baby beside her, lay on the floor, terrified at being a day’s journey down river from home. She whimpered.
“Now, now,” said Mrs. Feathers, patting her. “Hush, don’t be afraid. Tomorrow we’ll be at the Port and the next day the new baby will be here. I know. Then soon we shall all go home.” And she held up the jacket and looked at the pattern by the light of the kerosene lamp on the floor. She knew that the baby would be a girl and was finishing off the little garment with pink lacy scallops.
She finished the last scallop the following night in the Clinic but gave birth to a long, rangy, red-headed, eight-pound boy. She was delighted with him (Edward) and passed the jacket to the wet-nurse’s silky brown baby, who never wore it, and the next day puerperal fever began its cruel course and three days later Mrs. Feathers died.
Ten days after that, the Welsh missionary Auntie May was plodding firmly on board the river steamer which might be the last to run before the onset of the monsoon, one big hand on the rail of the gangplank, the other arm tight round the swaddled child. Behind came the weeping and now indispensable wet-nurse with her baby. She had wept for two days. Auntie May never wept.