by Alec Waugh
There was a final burst of applause. The band struck up a tango and dancing was resumed. Charles leant across the table. ‘I think, Barbara, that it’s time …’
But Basil interrupted him. ‘No, no, you mustn’t. There’s a surprise, ah, here it is.’
A waiter was bringing over a steaming bucket and six goblets. Barbara clapped her hands. ‘Whose heavenly idea was this?’ Keable looked at the gold-foiled bottle with irritation. What on earth did young Hallett think he was doing ordering champagne? His salary didn’t run to an extravagance of this kind. Julia had no money of her own. ‘This will give us our second wind,’ Basil was saying. The hell it would, thought Keable, and in consequence delay the party for at least an hour. But he must not show irritation. He raised his glass.
‘I don’t know if it’s anybody’s birthday, but I’m very glad to be drinking this lovely wine. What are we celebrating, by the way?’
‘Only the excellence of life. Don’t you think we make a mistake in making champagne an occasion wine? Don’t you think we should drink it whenever we feel effervescent or in need of effervescence?’
‘And which way do you feel tonight: effervescent or in need of effervescence?’
‘Both. I’m effervescent and I want to be sustained in effervescence.’
There was a laugh round the table. Keable flushed. He felt he had been put in his place. Damn this young puppy. Damn Julia for having been Barbara’s best friend. Barbara was shaking her wine with a fork. It irritated him. ‘Why drink champagne if you take the bubbles out of it? It would be much cheaper to order Chablis.’
‘There are two schools of thought on that point,’ Basil said. ‘Some people think it increases the effervescence.’
If I hear that word ‘effervescence’ again, I’ll brain him, Keable thought.
Basil was on his feet. ‘Let’s dance,’ he said to Barbara.
The tango had been superseded by a rock ‘n’ roll syncopation. Basil was in one of his high-spirited moods that more often than not followed his depressions. Life’s promise was unbounded. He danced like a bacchant, twirling Barbara round, his hand above his head, then abandoning her, dancing alone, sometimes facing her, sometimes mimicking the old Paris apache dances. Barbara played up to him, letting herself go, throwing herself back and forward from the waist, her fists half-clenched and level with her shoulders. Her husband watched her with a mingling of pride and sadness. She was so vivid, so attractive, and she was his, yet at the same time she could not be young like this with him. There were sides of her that remained unexpressed with him. He was very tired. The temptation to excuse himself was strong, to say, ‘I’m sorry I can’t stand the pace of you young people. I’m packing up.’ But he knew that would be fatal. He must not relegate himself to the older group. He turned to Blanche Pawling. ‘I can’t bound about the way young Hallett does. But I’ll do my best,’ he said.
The moment he was on the floor he found himself under the compulsion of the music. His feet moved faster. His body swayed. He wanted to cavort and bound. He forgot that he was forty-eight, the general manager of an oil camp. He felt ageless, the servant of this music and a the same time its master. It dominated him, yet at the same time he turned it to his use, as his engineers out there in the off-shore drillings harnessed the forces of nature to their purpose. The music pulsed through his nerves and muscles; he created his own responses, his own steps. He broke away from Blanche, just as Basil had from Barbara, following his own caprices, ducking, bobbing, prancing, his arms raised high above his head. He did not wonder if he were making himself ridiculous, if the young engineers at the bar were saying, ‘Look at the old man cutting loose.’ He was a new self suddenly, dancing as he had always wanted to, without knowing that he had.
When the music stopped for the first time, he clapped as loudly as anyone; when the final clash came he beckoned to the waiter. ‘Bring another bottle of champagne in half an hour. And a third one half an hour after that.’
‘Your best’s very good,’ said Blanche.
He looked down at her, as though he were really noticing her for the first time that evening. The dance had warmed him and excited him; her dancing as much as anything had done it. She was alive and vital. Seeing her every day for the last year, he had taken her for granted. ‘It’s odd,’ he said, ‘but I’ve only just begun to realize that you are exceedingly attractive.’
‘Better late than never.’
‘I know, but …’
She laughed; a quick, birdlike laugh. ‘Let’s dance again,’ she said.
She knew why he was looking at her this way. It was thanks to Angus. That was one of the great things about love, about being in love; there was a glow about you; you were like a honeypot and all the men buzzed round you, like a swarm of bees, while you yourself were indifferent to them all: with need for only one.
As Charles Keable cavorted by himself, she glanced back to the table where Harry was sitting beside Julia. He looked very tired. He was over forty, preparing himself to step into Charles’s shoes in a year or two. He was tall, heavy, balding and red-faced. He ate too much and he drank too much. He did not take enough exercise. He had given up tennis in exchange for golf, and it was a lazy, ambling kind of golf he played. Young men in the camp wondered how she had ever married him. They did not realize how quickly a man aged in the tropics, becoming middle-aged overnight. They could not see Harry as she had, thirteen years ago, when he was youthful, healthy and athletic: back from the wars with an M.C., and an air of confidence and dash. Herself, she had never been outside England. She had had a dreary war in the suburbs of a Midland town; with rationing and the blackout, with endless household jobs and going to school in a bus that had stopped every two minutes to pick up another pupil. Her father had been in the Home Guard, her brother s prisoner-of-war in Germany: nobody had had any fun: and then this handsome bronzed man had come back from the Middle East. Everyone had thought him wonderful, but she was the only girl that he’d thought wonderful. She couldn’t believe that he meant the things he said to her. She would compare notes with her friends. ‘Did he say this to you?’ ‘When you were dancing, did he …?’ And always they had shaken their heads. No, not with them, he hadn’t. Then I am special to him, she thought. He had swept her ofF her feet, and when he had said, ‘I’m going overseas next month. We’d better be married, hadn’t we, before I go?’ she had thought herself the luckiest woman in the world. For the next three years she had gone on thinking that: and now wasn’t she that again? Would she change her place for that of any woman in the world? She closed her eyes, remembering that darkened room, hearing those fevered accents, feeling along every nerve cell the tremble of that electric touch. No, there was no one she’d change places with.
The music ceased. She went back to the table. Harry had not danced for half an hour. He looked very tired, poor darling. Six months ago she would have been impatient with his tiredness. Why must he spoil her fun; why couldn’t he eat less, drink less; he was younger than Charles Keable and looked ten years older.
But tonight she felt tender towards him. Growing old was sad. She remembered Angus in the fire of his youth. Harry had been like that once. She touched him on the shoulder. ‘Darling, aren’t you tired?’ He looked up, surprised. It was unusual for her to suggest this. It was usually he— and at least an hour later—who pleaded his exhaustion.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It isn’t so late, is it?’
‘It’s late enough. I’ve had a long day. We were the hosts at dinner. We’ve the right to go. Why don’t we?’
Usually when they got back from a Saturday-night party, Harry was short-tempered, in no mood for conversation, but tonight he was affable, lively, talkative. He showered and changed into his pyjamas; he went into the kitchen and fetched out some milk. He sat on a chair beside her while she brushed her hair.
‘I felt so proud of you tonight,’ he said. ‘You looked so attractive; so young. You didn’t look a day older than Barbara and Jul
ia.’
She smiled—a warm glow spread along her veins. She relived fleetingly those close-locked moments.
‘Marriage is a funny thing,’ Harry was saying. ‘We’ve been married thirteen years; and in that time you can get accustomed to a lot. You tend to take a wife for granted. And then one evening she looks different and you remember how you felt when you first fell in love with her.’
His voice had taken on a deeper tone that she had not heard very often in these recent years. She turned from her mirror and smiled at him, fondly, gratefully. He, too, looked different this evening. She saw him so often when he was hot and tired and dishevelled; on his way to work or on his way from work, in his rough camp uniform; or at cocktail parties when his face was flushed and his chin half shaved and he was talking too loudly, but now after his shower, in his silk pyjamas, and red foulard dressing-gown, he looked ten years younger. Love transfigures everything, she thought. Skies are bluer and grass greener; music has a deeper rhythm. Everyone seems friendlier, younger, better-looking. You were in love with the whole world because you were in love with a single person. She raised her hand and gently touched his cheek. ‘You’re very sweet, you’re very dear to me.’
And later, when his arms went round her, and his voice again grew deep and tender, she responded in the same mood of universal benevolence. It was not round her husband’s neck that she coiled her arms. It was to life itself that she gave herself; she was a new woman; someone whom she had just discovered to be herself, a woman that had been revealed to herself in the last months. She responded as she had never done with him, even as a bride, slaking a thirst that had been quickened and left half-quenched in that twilit room.
It was quarter to three, the club was emptying, the band had started on a waltz; the prelude to ‘God Save the Queen’. The lights were lowered. Charles turned to Barbara. ‘This is surely ours.’ The slow languid strains soothed his nerves; after the impersonal demoniac dancing of the rock ‘n’ roll, he was aware again of his partner. It was good to feel Barbara in his arms. She moved closely against him. ‘I didn’t want to come here in the least,’ he said.
‘I know you didn’t. I felt mean about it, but you have enjoyed it, haven’t you?’
‘I’ve loved it. That’s what I was going to say. It’s been one of the best evenings of my life.’
‘Darling, I’m so glad and you were so sweet ordering all that champagne and being young and childish with us.’
‘That’s you. Without you I’d get pompous.’
‘I’ll see you don’t.’
He rested his cheek against hers. ‘You make me very happy.’
‘How about you me? And that car. I’ve not really thanked you for it yet.’ She lifted her head, leaning away, looking up at him, smiling with a particular look of mischief that always sent the blood pounding along his veins. ‘I’ll thank you later, in a way you’ll like,’ she said.
He lay back among the pillows, watching her at her dressing-table. The room was cool with the air-conditioning purring softly. The bed was very soft and he felt drowsy. He could see her reflected in the three-sided looking glass. He loved watching her at her table, her fingers moving lightly over her cheeks, her eyes, her forehead. Their slow rhythmic movements had an hypnotic quality. He felt happy, and at peace. The bed was very soft. He closed his eyes; when Barbara turned round from the looking glass he was asleep.
Chapter Four
Every Thursday the King held open court, where his subjects were entitled to petition him. It was a right of which few availed themselves, but the privilege was highly valued. Karakis would ask foreign visitors, ‘Can you see your King or President whenever you have a need, a wrong to be righted, a cause to be furthered?’
The Court was held in a long narrow room. Its walls were lined with chairs. At the end was a straight-backed throne, wide enough to hold three people. Its back was made of wood, as were its legs; they were gilded with gold leaf. The arm-rests were of silver, with the head of a lion at the end. The seat was covered with red silk. The King sat in the right-hand corner. He wore a light silver crown studded with emeralds and a long dark green silk robe shot with silver and gold thread. His hands were heavily ringed. His left hand rested on the silver lion. He was small, thin and frail, but his jewels, his crown, his robes gave him an air of strength. The Chamberlain stood behind him, with a long black, silver-headed wand. Visitors on entering would kneel, their heads bent to the ground. The King would acknowledge their obeisance, with his hands clasped and raised together. The visitor then took a seat. If a stranger came, the King would ask the Chamberlain, ‘Who is this man? What does he seek? In what way can I be of service to him?’ That happened rarely. Courts were the most part attended by officials, who felt it incumbent upon themselves to pay their respects periodically. It was the equivalent of the signing of the Government House book in a British colony. If there was anyone with whom he himself wished to talk, the King would summon him through his Chamberlain. There would be an exchange of compliments, the setting of a question. The King would then make a sign to the Chamberlain who would conduct the courtier to his seat.
Studholme usually attended Court. On the second Thursday in the following February he was summoned to the chair beside the King.
‘This morning,’ the King said, ‘I came to a decision. Prince Rhya must return to his own country.’
The King paused. His pause was a question, but Studholme waited.
‘You have not, I believe, met my son?’
‘That honour has not yet been accorded to me, Your Majesty.’
‘From what you have heard, do you judge that I have acted wisely?’
‘The day will come, Your Majesty—it is my heart’s deepest prayer that God will delay its coming for many years—when your son must assume the responsibilities and privileges that his ancestors have bequeathed him. It is good that he should recognize their extent and nature.’
‘Then we see eye to eye.’
The King made a sign to his Chamberlain and Studholme was conducted to his seat. Studholme remained for a few moments; it would have been bad manners to leave immediately. You must never hurry in the East. Then he rose, and bowed.
As he was crossing the courtyard, he saw Angus Macartney. He signalled him across.
‘I’ve news for you, Prince Rhya is coming back.’
‘Now that is news.’
‘I thought that was how you’d feel.’
The Crown Prince was four years older than Angus. He had led in Europe the kind of life that Angus would have given his soul to lead, but as a Karaki he had reservations. As he sat in the long throne-room he remembered what Studholme had said six weeks ago. What would happen when the old King died?
The Chamberlain stood behind his chair; he rose, followed him, sat beside the King.
‘It is a long time since I have seen your father. Is he well?’
‘He is not well, Your Majesty. He is weak and he is tired.’
‘He is not an old man. He should not be tired.’
‘He suffered much, Your Majesty, when the Japanese were here.’
‘I know, and I could not help him. He had a British passport. You were lucky to be in England then. So was my son lucky, to be in England. You do not, I think, know my son well.’
‘When he left here, I was only twenty. There is a great difference between a man of twenty-six and one of twenty.’
‘There will be less difference between a man of twenty-six and one of thirty. My son is returning shortly. He will find it strange at first. I think you will find that you have more in common now. You are both athletes.’ The King paused. ‘He will need friends,’ he added.
‘I hope that I shall be honoured with Prince Rhya’s friendship, Sire.’
‘That is my hope too.’
Angus had never been more flattered in his life. Ten minutes earlier he had been thinking of Prince Rhya with doubt and distrust; now he saw himself as the liegeman of his future ruler. His heart glowed
with pride, with a sense of dedication.
2
That glow of pride was still upon Angus as he sat later in the morning in the offices of the Messageries Maritimes shipping line, at a conference of the various companies to allocate the space available on a cargo that would be pausing at Singapore next week, on its way to Karak. The chairman was Colonel Kingsford, Pearl’s manager in Kuala Prang. Basil Hallett had come from Kassaya to present the camp’s requirements. Pearl, as the chief firm in the island, had a prior claim.
The Colonel opened the meeting. ‘The agent for Messageries Maritimes tells me that there is not as much space available as he had hoped. We may have to ration ourselves. If you will each tell me how much space you need, we will see what can be done. How much do you need, Basil?’
‘Nine hundred cubic yards.’
‘Mr. Ferguson?’
‘Seventy-five.’
‘Angus?’
‘Four hundred and twenty.’
Angus had recently had delivered in Singapore a piece of heavy equipment. It was for him an unusually big requirement.
Other firms, too, happened to have requirements beyond their usual needs. The bids for space exceeded the availability.
‘Then we shall have to ration ourselves,’ the chairman said. ‘Basil, you have the biggest quota; perhaps there are certain items for which there is less urgency than others?’
‘The figure that I was given was nine hundred.’ It was said uncompromisingly. The Colonel hesitated, then turned to Angus. ‘Your application was the next highest. How do you stand?’
Angus’s order consisted almost entirely of that one single and bulky piece of equipment and its component parts. It would be useless incomplete. It would be preferable to wait till he could collect the entire consignment at one time. He explained this to the chairman. ‘I have a small assortment of cases that could easily wait till the next ship comes, but it only amounts to a few cubic feet. I am anxious to have that one piece of equipment as soon as possible.’