by Alec Waugh
“If you put it that way, sir.”
“That’s how I do put it. I’ve only been here a little time but the newcomer brings a fresh viewpoint. He very often sees more than men who’ve lived in a place all their lives. The next weeks are going to be very difficult with these elections. I need all the support I can get. I’ve spent these last days at the Governors’ conference in B.G. From what they told me there, this is of course in the strictest confidence … Look here, let me fill your glass.”
He made Carson’s second drink a strong one. He wanted Carson to leave in a good temper, with no sense of having been upon the mat, proud of himself, in a glow of confidence and self-esteem; ready to make his peace with Leisching in a way that would throw the German off his guard.
“There’s something else I want to talk about,” he said. “About the general spirit in your district. Do you feel that there is any genuine communism there, or is the unrest simply the natural resentment of the ‘have-nots’ for the ‘haves’?”
“I’d say it was that, sir, with the resentment played up by agitators.”
“You wouldn’t believe that there was a communist cell there?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor would I. That’s what I told them in B.G. In Jamaica and Trinidad and in B.G. very specially, the Communist Party is genuinely active. But the communists haven’t started to bother yet about these small islands. What I expect will happen in the elections…”
He explained his point of view.
“No, don’t hurry away, my dear fellow,” he said, as Carson showed signs of moving. “It’s so rarely that I get a chance of talking to someone of my own type. Let me fill your glass. I could use another whisky myself. I hate drinking alone. I have to much too often. I get very lonely sometimes. I expect you do too. I must say I’m surprised at your not remarrying.”
“I’m a bit old for that, sir.”
“Nonsense, how old are you? Under forty surely?”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“Heavens, man, that’s nothing. If I was thirty-eight and unattached, with all these good-looking girls around, Mavis Norman, Doris Kellaway …”
“They’re children, sir.”
“Oh, no they’re not. Most of them are over twenty, and you know as well as I do that a great many young women prefer men older than themselves. Besides there’s a man shortage here. I’m sure that several very personable young people have asked themselves questions about you. In a place like this, a man’s better married. For that matter a man’s always better married.”
Ah, but don’t I know that, Carson told himself. His head was aching and his limbs were weary. He had been on the wagon for a week. He had meant to stay on it longer, as an experiment; but it hadn’t done any good. He had felt worse if anything. Perhaps that was because he hadn’t tried long enough. He had always heard that people who went on that orange juice cure at Tring came out in spots after the first week. He had meant to keep on the wagon for another week. But he couldn’t have faced an ordeal like this without a couple first. It had tasted so good too, that first long swallow. It had sent such a warm peace along his nerves, but now once again there was that stabbing, intermittent pain that only ceased at the actual moment that the rich sharp liquid ran over his throat.
“In a place like this,” the Governor was going on, “where there’s so much to irritate you, the climate, the mosquitoes, the stupidity of the peasants, the narrowness of one’s acquaintance, a man needs someone to relax him.”
Carson smiled ruefully. Did he need telling that? Couldn’t he remember in detail after cherished detail those two years with Daphne? He had been exposed to a pompous second in command with whom every day he had come into some kind of conflict. He had seen red at the sight of that perky little man with the short brushed-back mustache, and the meticulous tone of voice. “There’s one item in your training program, Carson, that frankly I can’t understand.”
He could recall every inflection in that voice across a dozen years. At moments he had been on the brink of mutiny. Yet all the time he had known that at the day’s end Daphne would be waiting for him in their Georgian drawing room. Firelight would flicker on the glass of a Queen Anne bookcase. Daphne would be fresh and gay and scented in contrast to the gravel of the barrack square and the mud of the rifle range, and the bare orderly room with its trestle tables. There would be a bowl of ice on the side table. “Hurry down,” she would say, “and I’ll have your cocktail ready.”
He would find her standing by the fireplace, the tall steaming shaker in her hand. The glass would have been chilled. Daiquiris were her specialty. There was a bite of bitters through the sweetness. One sip and the harshness and impatience of the day dissolved. They would stand side by side, his arm about her waist; she would be soft and fond and pliant. This moment was his reward and recompense for all that he had known of strain and irritation through the day. Did he need telling how a wife, the right kind of wife, relaxed you?
“An unattached male in this kind of place can’t help drinking more than he should,” the Governor was continuing. “He sees the same people, night after night in the same place, discussing the same topics. He can only get a kick out of their company through alcohol.”
Again Carson smiled ruefully. He knew the geography of that road.
“I sometimes wonder why you picked on an island like this. I should have thought you would have more to stimulate you in a bigger place, Jamaica say.”
“Jamaica’s too expensive, sir.”
“It needn’t be. There’s the smart playboy group that hangs round Montego Bay, but there’s no need to mix with that set. There is a large resident community that leads a pleasant life on their estates, entertaining one another, never meeting the socialites.”
“That’s what I didn’t like the sound of: there being a whole section of the island’s life in which I did not mix; I’d have felt so silly when my London friends asked me about Sunset Lodge and I’d have to confess I’d never been there.”
“I don’t see why you should. In London you don’t stay at Claridge’s. In Jamaica as in London you can find a life that suits your tastes and income. If I’d been you, I’d have picked Jamaica.”
Suddenly Carson felt upon his guard. Was there, he asked himself, a note of insistence in the Governor’s voice? Is he suggesting that I clear out of here, that I’m a nuisance and a responsibility, that I’d be wise to sell up, clear out? Has all he’s been saying to me so far been so much soft soap? Is this what he’s been working up to, was this the real point of having me up here?
His head was throbbing, his wound ached. He was in for a bad night. He finished his drink and rose. “I must be going, sir. I’ve stayed too long. I won’t forget what you’ve said.”
Templeton accompanied him to the door. “I’ve enjoyed our talk more than I can say. We must meet oftener. We must have a quiet evening sometime. I wish I hadn’t so many official obligations. There’s so much protocol in a job like this. Everyone’s so touchy about whom they’re asked to meet and if I ask one person more often than another they get jealous and say I’ve favorites. Let’s see now, where’s your car?”
“I came on foot.”
“That’s a long walk.”
“The exercise does me good.”
“Mayn’t I send you back?”
“No, thank you very much, sir. I’ll enjoy the walk.”
It had been a gray, cloudy afternoon, rain seemed imminent and Carson was walking with a limp. He knew his own business best, the Governor supposed, and returned to his study and to the pile of papers that Archer had arranged for him on his desk. At the top of the pile was that morning’s issue of The Voice of Santa Marta.
2
Carson reached the club shortly after six. His back was aching. He had been a fool not to take the Governor’s offer of a lift. He had thought a walk might do him good, take away the stiffness; sometimes it did. Tonight it hadn’t. He went straight to the bar.
“A w
hisky soda, Joe.”
The soda was well iced but the liquid was warm against his heart. He forgot that his head was throbbing, and that a knife was cutting at the big toe that was no longer his. He looked about him. The club was fairly full, but he did not see Dr. Leisching. Leisching usually came late. Or perhaps he was playing bridge. There was no one he cared to talk to. “A whisky soda, Joe.”
Two girls came along the veranda, arm in arm, whispering. Doris Kellaway and Mavis.
“Hullo there, have a drink,” he said.
They checked, surprised. It was the first time he had spoken to them, other than casually and when they were in a group.
“What’ll you have?” he asked.
Doris was wearing a light scarf over a low-cut dress. Her shoulders were very smooth and rounded. H.E. was right. There were some striking girls here.
“Something with gin or something with rum?” he asked.
Doris looked questioningly at Mavis. They were anxious to join the girls’ table at the end of the veranda. They wanted to have a long gossip about the article in that day’s paper. They were anxious to know what everyone else thought. How was this going to affect Jocelyn and Euan? Had anyone seen Jocelyn? What were they to say when they met her? They did not want to stand here at the bar. At the same time they could not be rude to Colonel Carson.
“I’d like a dry swizzle,” Mavis said. “I expect Doris would like the same.”
A swizzle could be gulped, had to be gulped in fact.
“Fine, and another whisky, Joe.”
He turned toward the girls, addressing himself to Doris. “You’re looking very pretty tonight,” he said.
Doris was too surprised to answer.
“Can’t think why I haven’t noticed it before,” he said. “Funny how quickly a girl grows up. I’ve been here three years now; when I came here first you were a schoolgirl. So I’ve gone on thinking of you as a schoolgirl. I haven’t realized that you were growing up; that you’d stopped being a schoolgirl. Do you know that when I saw you coming along the veranda, I said to myself, ‘Now who is this extremely pretty girl?’ then suddenly I realized that it was little Doris Kellaway grown up.”
He said it on a bantering note. Doris felt awkward. She did not know what to say. She was not used to being spoken to like this by men nearly old enough to be her father.
“Now that I have realized it, we must do something about it,” he was continuing. “We must have a party. You haven’t seen my place since I took it over. We might have a picnic. Collect some of your friends, Mavis here, and that A.D.C., and that young Barbadian at the bank, what is his name, I can’t remember it. Let’s fix it now. What’s the best day for you?”
Doris looked helplessly, appealingly, at Mavis. Carson saw the look and understood it. You’re being a fool, he told himself, rushing your fences. This isn’t the way to treat this kind of filly; patience, tact, that’s what you need. A light hand on the rein. But that was precisely what he could not do, once he had begun.
“What day would suit you best? A picnic bathing party, or what about coming out for a bathe in the afternoon, then coming back to my place for dinner? That’s not a bad idea. Let’s choose an evening when there’s a moon. There’ll be a new moon next week. Why not the week after?”
The expression on Doris’ face became more puzzled, more embarrassed. You’re being a fool, he told himself. You’ve never taken any notice of this girl before; then without any warning you start showering her with fulsome compliments, asking her on a party, before she even knows you. You must be mad. Snap out of it. So he adjured himself, but he could not stop. He heard himself speaking and his voice went on.
“Personally I think an evening party would be better. I need a siesta after lunch myself. That breaks up the afternoon. What about Friday week? That’s my pay day. I need a relaxation when that’s over. Your glasses are empty. What about the other half?”
That gave them the break, the chance to get away they needed.
“No, really,” Mavis protested. “Two drinks an evening are as much as I can stand. And I’ve promised to join some people.”
“Have you? I see your point. Quite agree with you. You’re very wise. Don’t believe in young girls taking too many cocktails. Leave that for retired colonels.”
Heavens, he thought, I’m talking like a caricature. I’m making myself ridiculous. But he couldn’t stop.
“Run along and enjoy yourselves. But Friday week’s a date now, isn’t it?”
“Of course. Thanks for the swizzle.”
They were gone before anything had been decided, the place, the time, the other guests. Tomorrow, he told himself, Doris would be ringing up to say that there was something she had remembered, or else there would be a letter. More likely there’d be a letter, then he wouldn’t have a chance of saying, “Too bad but if you can’t manage Friday what about Tuesday, any day in fact.”
They hadn’t wanted to be tied down. They didn’t want to come. Why should they, with a man whom they’d dismissed as one of the grown-up set. Why had he asked them? Why had he let his mood run away with him? Too much to drink, following on what H.E. had said. The idea had been planted in his mind. Then suddenly the sight of those white shoulders. He was under forty after all. That wasn’t anything. Younger than Antony when he met Cleopatra. H.E. was right. Lots of young girls preferred men older than themselves. Girls wanted to be married. They’d rather be married to a man of forty than not married. Yes, but he’d started it the wrong way round, rushing his fences.
He felt deflated, depressed, angry with himself. Why couldn’t he have advanced slowly, got to know the girl by stages, it would have been so easy; first make her like him, interest her in him: he’d been about, she hadn’t; he could tell her things, then gradually lead her from liking to affection, and from affection to something warm enough to justify the risk of marriage. He didn’t expect to inspire a grand passion, but was that necessary? Many of the most lasting marriages had begun this way. H.E. might have held the key, the solution to his problem. Marriage to Doris Kellaway. Two hours ago the idea had never crossed his mind, but now with the idea once planted …
He looked at her across the room. She was in profile. She had one of those amusing squashed-in faces. She was smiling. She looked fresh and gay. Life would be a picnic with her sharing it. If only he had played his cards correctly. Why had he been such a fool? He wouldn’t be again. But it was not too late. It was drink. Everything was the fault of drink. He wouldn’t be drinking if he were married. He hadn’t drunk when he had had Daphne: if only he had Daphne still. If only he could find someone to take Daphne’s place. Why shouldn’t he? Other men did, older men… “A whisky soda, Joe.”
He leant back against the wall, his eyes on Doris, visualizing life as it might be, as it would be if he married her. He saw that life in terms of his days with Daphne. Doris waiting for him with a planter’s punch when he came back at lunch, at the end of a long morning in the cane fields: Doris at his side as they drove into town on Saturday evenings to “beat it up.” Glimpses of Doris across a crowded room, at cocktail parties, a quick smile that said “the best part of all this will be talking it over afterwards.” He was happy, confident, at peace. His headache had stopped. His wound throbbed no longer. He felt as he had fourteen years ago on the brink of marriage. The best of everything in front of him. Life gave you a second innings; an opportunity to repair the mistakes you had made first time, to consolidate your first advantages. This time there’d be no mistake. “A whisky soda, Joe.”
Through the doorway of the card room a four that had broken up was making its way onto the veranda. Dr. Leisching was among them. Ah, the doctor. That promise of his to the General. He’d get that settled now. Then with the slate clean, he could begin that second innings. He levered himself forward from the wall. Leisching was standing beside his wife and another couple. They were indulging in an uncontentious post-mortem. He walked toward them. He was very conscious of his limp. Curious
how it became more marked when the wind was in the east. He stood beside the doctor. The doctor was turned away, occupied with his discussion.
“But surely you must have recognized when I discarded the six of clubs …”
He explained his point with Teutonic thoroughness. The other man interrupted him.
“But as you had declared three hearts, I assumed that the six of clubs…”
Carson grew impatient. He couldn’t wait here all day. He tapped Leisching on the arm. “I’m sorry, Doctor, to interrupt this learned disquisition, but there’s something I want to say to you. I behaved very stupidly the other night. I want to apologize. Let’s shake hands and have a drink and forget all about it.”
He held out his hand, but the hand that he held out was folded round a glass of whisky.
“Now that’s funny, isn’t it,” he said.
He moved the glass over to his other hand. But his left hand as he leant against the wall had been in his trouser pocket. It was hot and sticky. The glass slipped, fell to the floor and broke. The clatter silenced instantly every conversation. With his right hand still held out, Carson stared down at the floor, at the broken glass and the trickling liquid.
“I’m very clumsy, aren’t I?” he said.
The German smiled. It was his chance and he was not missing it.
“No, my friend,” he said. “You are not very clumsy, but you are very drunk. It is generous of you to want to make me an apology for your very curious behavior the other evening, but in the condition that you are now in, I am afraid that by tomorrow morning you will have entirely forgotten the whole incident. I shall be in the Jamestown Club tomorrow morning at twelve o’clock and if you would care to make your apology to me there, I shall be delighted to accept it, but in the meantime, as a doctor, I should prescribe for you an early retirement preceded by a Bromo-Seltzer.”