Then she heard her husband’s step on the gravel path behind the bungalow, the path that led to the court-house in which he had been working, and she rose from her chair to greet him. He ran up the short flight of steps, for the bungalow was built on piles, and at the door the boy was waiting to take his topee. He came into the room which served them as a dining-room and parlour, and his eyes lit up with pleasure as he saw her.
‘Hulloa, Doris. Hungry?’
‘Ravenous.’
‘It’ll only take me a minute to have a bath and then I’m ready.’
‘Be quick,’ she smiled.
He disappeared into his dressing-room and she heard him whistling cheerily while, with the carelessness with which she was always remonstrating, he tore off his clothes and flung them on the floor. He was twenty-nine, but he was still a school-boy; he would never grow up. That was why she had fallen in love with him, perhaps, for no amount of affection could persuade her that he was good-looking. He was a little round man, with a red face like the full moon, and blue eyes. He was rather pimply. She had examined him carefully and had been forced to confess to him that he had not a single feature which she could praise. She had told him often that he wasn’t her type at all.
‘I never said I was a beauty,’ he laughed.
‘I can’t think what it is I see in you.’
But of course she knew perfectly well. He was a gay, jolly little man, who took nothing very solemnly, and he was constantly laughing. He made her laugh too. He found life an amusing rather than a serious business, and he had a charming smile. When she was with him she felt happy and good-tempered. And the deep affection which she saw in those merry blue eyes of his touched her. It was very satisfactory to be loved like that. Once, sitting on his knees, during their honeymoon she had taken his face in her hands and said to him:
‘You’re an ugly, little fat man, Guy, but you’ve got charm. I can’t help loving you.’
A wave of emotion swept over her and her eyes filled with tears. She saw his face contorted for a moment with the extremity of his feeling and his voice was a little shaky when he answered.
‘It’s a terrible thing for me to have married a woman who’s mentally deficient,’ he said.
She chuckled. It was the characteristic answer which she would have liked him to make.
It was hard to realize that nine months ago she had never even heard of him. She had met him at a small place by the seaside where she was spending a month’s holiday with her mother. Doris was a secretary to a member of parliament, Guy was home on leave. They were staying at the same hotel, and he quickly told her all about himself. He was born in Sembulu, where his father had served for thirty years under the second Sultan, and on leaving school he had entered the same service. He was devoted to the country.
‘After all, England’s a foreign land to me,’ he told her. ‘My home’s Sembulu.’
And now it was her home too. He asked her to marry him at the end of the month’s holiday. She had known he was going to, and had decided to refuse him. She was her widowed mother’s only child and she could not go so far away from her, but when the moment came she did not quite know what happened to her, she was carried off her feet by an unexpected emotion, and she accepted him. They had been settled now for four months in the little outstation of which he was in charge. She was very happy.
She told him once that she had quite made up her mind to refuse him.
‘Are you sorry you didn’t?’ he asked, with a merry smile in his twinkling blue eyes.
‘I should have been a perfect fool if I had. What a bit of luck that fate or chance or whatever it was stepped in and took the matter entirely out of my hands!’
Now she heard Guy clatter down the steps to the bath-house. He was a noisy fellow and even with bare feet he could not be quiet. But he uttered an exclamation. He said two or three words in the local dialect and she could not understand. Then she heard someone speaking to him, not aloud, but in a sibilant whisper. Really it was too bad of people to waylay him when he was going to have his bath. He spoke again and though his voice was low she could hear that he was vexed. The other voice was raised now; it was a woman’s. Doris supposed it was someone who had a complaint to make. It was like a Malay woman to come in that surreptitious way. But she was evidently getting very little from Guy, for she heard him say: Get out. That at all events she understood, and then she heard him bolt the door. There was a sound of the water he was throwing over himself (the bathing arrangements still amused her; the bath-houses were under the bedrooms, on the ground; you had a large tub of water and you sluiced yourself with a little tin pail) and in a couple of minutes he was back again in the dining-room. His hair was still wet. They sat down to luncheon.
‘It’s lucky I’m not a suspicious or a jealous person,’ she laughed. ‘I don’t know that I should altogether approve of your having animated conversations with ladies while you’re having your bath.’
His face, usually so cheerful, had borne a sullen look when he came in, but now it brightened.
‘I wasn’t exactly pleased to see her.’
‘So I judged by the tone of your voice. In fact, I thought you were rather short with the young person.’
‘Damned cheek, waylaying me like that!’
‘What did she want?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s a woman from the kampong. She’s had a row with her husband or something.’
‘I wonder if it’s the same one who was hanging about this morning.’
He frowned a little.
‘Was there someone hanging about?’
‘Yes, I went into your dressing-room to see that everything was nice and tidy, and then I went down to the bath-house. I saw someone slink out of the door as I went down the steps and when I looked out I saw a woman standing there.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘I asked her what she wanted and she said something, but I couldn’t understand.’
‘I’m not going to have all sorts of stray people prowling about here,’ he said. ‘They’ve got no right to come.’
He smiled, but Doris, with the quick perception of a woman in love, noticed that he smiled only with his lips, not as usual with his eyes also, and wondered what it was that troubled him.
‘What have you been doing this morning?’ he asked.
‘Oh, nothing much. I went for a little walk.’
‘Through the kampong?’
‘Yes. I saw a man send a chained monkey up a tree to pick coconuts, which rather thrilled me.’
‘It’s rather a lark, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, Guy, there were two little boys watching him who were much whiter than the others. I wondered if they were half-castes. I spoke to them, but they didn’t know a word of English.’
‘There are two or three half-caste children in the kampong,’ he answered.
‘Who do they belong to?’
‘Their mother is one of the village girls.’
‘Who is their father?’
‘Oh, my dear, that’s the sort of question we think it a little dangerous to ask out here.’ He paused. ‘A lot of fellows have native wives, and then when they go home or marry they pension them off and send them back to their village.’
Doris was silent. The indifference with which he spoke seemed a little callous to her. There was almost a frown on her frank, open, pretty English face when she replied.
‘But what about the children?’
‘I have no doubt they’re properly provided for. Within his means, a man generally sees that there’s enough money to have them decently educated. They get jobs as clerks in a government office, you know; they’re all right.’
She gave him a slightly rueful smile.
‘You can’t expect me to think it’s a very good system.’
‘You mustn’t be too hard,’ he smiled back.
‘I’m not hard. But I’m thankful you never had a Malay wife. I should have hated it. Just think if those two little brats
were yours.’
The boy changed their plates. There was never much variety in their menu. They started luncheon with river fish, dull and insipid, so that a good deal of tomato ketchup was needed to make it palatable, and then went on to some kind of stew. Guy poured Worcester Sauce over it.
The old Sultan didn’t think it was a white woman’s country,’ he said presently. ‘He rather encouraged people to – keep house with native girls. Of course things have changed now. The country’s perfectly quiet and I suppose we know better how to cope with the climate.’
‘But, Guy, the eldest of those boys wasn’t more than seven or eight and the other was about five.’
‘It’s awfully lonely on an outstation. Why, often one doesn’t see another white man for six months on end. A fellow comes out here when he’s only a boy.’ He gave her that charming smile of his which transfigured his round, plain face. ‘There are excuses, you know.’
She always found that smile irresistible. It was his best argument. Her eyes grew once more soft and tender.
‘I’m sure there are.’ She stretched her hand across the little table and put it on his. ‘I’m very lucky to have caught you so young. Honestly, it would upset me dreadfully if I were told that you had lived like that.’
He took her hand and pressed it.
‘Are you happy here, darling?’
‘Desperately.’
She looked very cool and fresh in her linen frock. The heat did not distress her. She had no more than the prettiness of youth, though her brown eyes were fine; but she had a pleasing frankness of expression, and her dark, short hair was neat and glossy. She gave you the impression of a girl of spirit and you felt sure that the member of parliament for whom she worked had in her a very competent secretary.
‘I loved the country at once,’ she said. ‘Although I’m alone so much I don’t think I’ve ever once felt lonely.’
Of course she had read novels about the Malay Archipelago and she had formed an impression of a sombre land with great ominous rivers and a silent, impenetrable jungle. When the little coasting steamer set them down at the mouth of the river, where a large boat, manned by a dozen Dyaks, was waiting to take them to the station, her breath was taken away by the beauty, friendly rather than awe-inspiring, of the scene. It had a gaiety, like the joyful singing of birds in the trees, which she had never expected. On each bank of the river were mangroves and nipah palms, and behind them the dense green of the forest. In the distance stretched, blue mountains, range upon range, as far as the eye could see. She had no sense of confinement nor of gloom, but rather of openness and wide spaces where the exultant fancy could wander with delight. The green glittered in the sunshine and the sky was blithe and cheerful. The gracious land seemed to offer her a smiling welcome.
They rowed on, hugging a bank, and high overhead flew a pair of doves. A flash of colour, like a living jewel, dashed across their path. It was a kingfisher. Two monkeys, with their dangling tails, sat side by side on a branch. On the horizon, over there on the other side of the broad and turbid river, beyond the jungle, was a row of little white clouds, the only clouds in the sky, and they looked like a row of ballet-girls, dressed in white, waiting at the back of the stage, alert and merry, for the curtain to go up. Her heart was filled with joy; and now, remembering it all, her eyes rested on her husband with a grateful, assured affection.
And what fun it had been to arrange their living-room! It was very big. On the floor, when she arrived, was torn and dirty matting; on the walls of unpainted wood hung (much too high up) photogravures of Academy pictures, Dyak shields, and parangs. The tables were covered with Dyak cloth in sombre colours, and on them stood pieces of Brunei brassware, much in need of cleaning, empty cigarette tins, and bits of Malay silver. There was a rough wooden shelf with cheap editions of novels and a number of old travel books in battered leather; and another shelf was crowded with empty bottles. It was a bachelor’s room, untidy but stiff; and though it amused her she found it intolerably pathetic. It was a dreary, comfortless life that Guy had led there, and she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him.
‘You poor darling,’ she laughed.
She had deft hands and she soon made the room habitable. She arranged this and that, and what she could not do with she turned out. Her wedding-presents helped. Now the room was friendly and comfortable. In glass vases were lovely orchids and in great bowls huge masses of flowering shrubs. She felt an inordinate pride because it was her house (she had never in her life lived in anything but a poky flat) and she had made it charming for him.
‘Are you pleased with me?’ she asked when she had finished.
‘Quite,’ he smiled.
The deliberate understatement was much to her mind. How jolly it was that they should understand each other so well They were both of them shy of displaying emotion, and it was only at rare moments that they used with one another anything but ironic banter.
They finished luncheon and he threw himself into a long chair to have a sleep. She went towards her room. She was a little surprised that he drew her to him as she passed and, making her bend down, kissed her lips. They were not in the habit of exchanging embraces at odd hours of the day.
‘A full tummy is making you sentimental, my poor lamb,’ she chaffed him.
‘Get out and don’t let me see you again for at least two hours.’
‘Don’t snore.’
She left him. They had risen at dawn and in five minutes were first asleep.
Doris was awakened by the sound of her husband’s splashing in the bath-house. The walls of the bungalow were like a sounding board and not a thing that one of them did escaped the other. She felt too lazy to move, but she heard the boy bring the tea things in, so she jumped up and ran down into her own bath-house. The water, not cold but cool, was deliciously refreshing. When she came into the sitting-room Guy was taking the rackets out of the press, for they played tennis in the short cool of the evening. The night fell at six.
The tennis-court was two or three hundred yards from the bungalow and after tea, anxious not to lose time, they strolled down to it.
‘Oh, look,’ said Doris, ‘there’s that girl that I saw this morning.’
Guy turned quickly. His eyes rested for a moment on a native woman, but he did not speak.
‘What a pretty sarong she’s got,’ said Doris. ‘I wonder where it comes from.’
They passed her. She was slight and small, with the large, dark, starry eyes of her race and a mass of raven hair. She did not stir as they went by, but stared at them strangely. Doris saw then that she was not quite so young as she had at first thought. Her features were a trifle heavy and her skin was dark, but she was very pretty. She held a small child in her arms. Doris smiled a little as she saw it, but no answering smile moved the woman’s lips. Her face remained impassive. She did not look at Guy, she looked only at Doris, and he walked on as though he did not see her. Doris turned to him.
‘Isn’t that baby a duck?’
‘I didn’t notice.’
She was puzzled by the look of his face. It was deathly white, and the pimples which not a little distressed her were more than commonly red.
‘Did you notice her hands and feet? She might be a duchess.’
‘All natives have good hands and feet,’ he answered, but not jovially as was his wont; it was as though he forced himself to speak.
But Doris was intrigued.
‘Who is she, d’you know?’
‘She’s one of the girls in the kampong.’
They had reached the court now. When Guy went up to the net to see that it was taut he looked back. The girl was still standing where they had passed her. Their eyes met.
‘Shall I serve?’ said Doris.
‘Yes, you’ve got the balls on your side.’
He played very badly. Generally he gave her fifteen and beat her, but today she won easily. And he played silently. Generally be was a noisy player, shouting all the time, cursing his fooli
shness when he missed a ball and chaffing her when he placed one out of her reach.
‘You’re off your game, young man,’ she cried.
‘Not a bit,’ he said.
He began to slam the balls, trying to beat her, and sent one after the other into the net. She had never seen him with that set face. Was it possible that he was a little out of temper because he was not playing well? The light fell, and they ceased to play. The woman whom they had passed stood in exactly the same position as when they came and once more, with expressionless face, she watched them go.
The blinds on the veranda were raised now, and on the table between their two long chairs were bottles and soda-water. This was the hour at which they had the first drink of the day and Guy mixed a couple of gin slings. The river stretched widely before them, and on the farther bank the jungle was wrapped in the mystery of the approaching night. A native was silently rowing up-stream, standing at the bow of the boat, with two oars.
‘I played like a fool,’ said Guy, breaking a silence. ‘I’m feeling a bit under the weather.’
‘I’m sorry. You’re not going to have fever, are you?’
‘Oh, no. I shall be all right tomorrow.’
Darkness closed in upon them. The frogs croaked loudly and now and then they heard a few short notes from some singing bird of the night. Fireflies flitted across the veranda and they made the trees that surrounded it look like Christmas trees lit with tiny candles. They sparkled softly. Doris thought she heard a little sigh. It vaguely disturbed her. Guy was always so full of gaiety.
‘What is it, old man?’ she said gently. ‘Tell mother.’
‘Nothing. Time for another drink,’ he answered breezily.
Next day he was as cheerful as ever and the mail came. The coasting steamer passed the mouth of the river twice a month, once on its way to the coalfields and once on its way back. On the outward journey it brought mail, which Guy sent a boat down to fetch. Its arrival was the excitement of their uneventful lives. For the first day or two they skimmed rapidly all that had come, letters, English papers and papers from Singapore, magazines and books, leaving for the ensuing weeks a more exact perusal. They snatched the illustrated papers from one another. If Doris had not been so absorbed she might have noticed that there was a change in Guy. She would have found it hard to describe and harder still to explain. There was in his eyes a sort of watchfulness and in his mouth a slight droop of anxiety.
The Penguin Book of English Short Stories Page 14