by Alec Waugh
He frowned as he examined the Artzibasheff cartoon. The frown deepened as he read the article on Bradshaw. It was a long and amusing article. It treated Bradshaw as the Innocent Abroad dropped without preparation into the confusion of colonial politics. It was sympathetic to Bradshaw, in a way it was sympathetic to the British regime that had to accommodate such conflicting interests, but nevertheless it poked a good deal of fun at it. Price shook his head; he did not like that kind of thing. The Colonial Office could not afford to have fun poked at it at a time when colonies were clamoring for dominion status or independence. Marsh had handled the affair clumsily. He was the wrong man for the post. Himself he had never felt happy about the appointment, but Freddie had been so anxious to give a chance to one of the younger men. Freddie knew better now: not that he could do anything about it. It was prudent sometimes to ignore one’s own mistakes. And this was one of the times when it was. Wait for the cabinet reshuffle, then find Marsh a post where he could do no harm. The Duchy of Lancaster? No, that was too good. Agriculture and Fisheries perhaps: A gentle easing out. He’d have to think about it. The great thing at the moment was to give an appearance of solidarity, to act as though nothing untoward had happened.
He laid down the magazine and went into the morning room for a preprandial glass of sherry.
2
That was at half past six. The sun at that moment was high at Santa Marta as Denis Archer waited in the chalet for what well might prove his last picnic there with Margot. The last ten days had been his most hectic since the Battle of the Bulge. There had been the rush of good-by parties, the flurry over Euan’s wedding; the arranging of passages, the forwarding of luggage. He pitied the A.D.C. whose employer had a wife as well for him to cope with. Never again, he assured himself, never again. He had been so rushed off his feet that he had very little time to wonder about his own future, for this change was going to affect him considerably.
He had anticipated that he would be in steady employment for three years. He had planned in terms of not having to worry about earning any money until his return. He had worked intermittently on a travelogue, had written half a dozen poems; there was plenty of time he had told himself. He would get down to something solid at the start of his second year and would return to England with a novel or travel diary to establish his literary identity. But here he was now, about to arrive in London, with a small balance at his bank and nothing to show a publisher.
The old boy had said “I’m afraid this will be a great inconvenience for you. Don’t worry. I’ll see that you are all right.” Which was very decent of him and very typical of him. But there were limits to what the old boy could do. Anything practical he did, would involve a putting of his hand into his own pocket. And nothing he could do in that way would provide an equivalent for free board and lodging, leisure, and ample pocket money for thirty months. How could you live in London without spending money: and if you lived in a small country inn, what would you have to write about? He would have to think out a whole lot of problems as that clipper ship flew eastward over the Atlantic.
He had had no time to sort those problems; to classify and number them. He had been equally taken off his guard personally. What about Margot? He had seen her too in terms of a three years’ appointment. He had never looked ahead. They had discussed nothing. They had lived from one day to the next. There was a timeless quality, a living upon another plane about their hours together. He had assumed that when his three years were up they would have reached a mood when it would be easy for them to wave good-by, having had the best of one another; each one ready for novelty. He had thought they were lucky to be spared the making of decisions. They would never go stale on one another. It would be the way things ought to happen, the way things did in books. He was utterly unprepared for this sudden break.
Impatiently he paced the room. This might be the last time. Did Margot realize that? What was going to happen to her? Would she be kept on here at the Secretariat? What was there that he could do for her? She was self-reliant. She had never asked for anything. He had no idea what her home problems were. He’d send her something at Christmas, he told himself; something substantial, that she could keep in reserve for an emergency: though even as he thought that he knew that she was not the person who puts things by. She would spend whatever he sent in an orgy of new dresses.
I’ll know what to do when the time comes, he told himself. He wouldn’t put on an act. Maybe it wouldn’t be the last time. They’d be able to squeeze in some last minute meeting, “the little grace of an hour,” and if they didn’t have that final meeting, he’d be able to say something consoling, reassuring about how lucky they had been not to have had a last time that they had known would be the last. “I couldn’t have borne it, knowing it was the last.” So he thought at hazard, confusedly: seeing it in terms of books he had read. Then she came round the curve of the narrow pathway and he forgot all that.
She was wearing a short-sleeved primrose yellow sweater, a wide sage green skirt, with a red belt that he had bought for her in Trinidad. She was wearing nothing that he had not seen a dozen times. There was no dressing for an occasion. He opened the chalet door for her and she paused beside him as she always did; placed her hands upon his shoulders, raised herself upon her toes, and kissed him, lightly, but letting her lips linger against his, the way she always did, then dropped back upon her heels and stepped away.
“I’m thirsty,” she said. She pulled the cork out of the thermos flask and poured herself a punch.
“That’s good,” she said.
She sat on the arm of the long chair swinging her right leg over the side.
“I heard a funny story about the Archdeacon.” She began to tell him.
Her voice ran gaily on. It was an amusing anecdote. He stood beside her; she was wearing a new scent that he had given her; a heavy one based on musk. The sweater fitted tightly across her breasts. He put his hands under her arms and lifted her onto her feet. She smiled. She lifted the glass to her mouth and tilted back her head; he could see the pulse in her throat throbbing as she swallowed the cool sweet liquid. The ice clicked against her teeth as the last drop ran over her tongue. She tossed the glass onto the divan and folded her arms about his neck.
She stretched back her arms among the cushions, and shook her head, blinking, as though she were rising to the surface after a long dive.
“I’m hungry,” she said and swung her feet onto the floor.
“As I was telling you, when the Archdeacon saw what he was doing …”
She continued her story, as she munched her sandwich. As though there had been no interruption.
“I’m still hungry,” she said, “and still quite a little thirsty. No, you sit still, I’ll help myself. I like moving about.”
A pile of manuscript was on the desk. She paused by it. She looked at the top page.
“This is new,” she said.
She began to read.
“I like this,” she said and turned the page.
Denis Archer, seeing her standing there, reading what he had written, had the sudden devastating picture of a life without her, of writing things she would not read. He blinked. He could not face that prospect. This had gone too deep. She was part not only of his life here in this room, but of his life wherever he might be. He could not leave her.
“Have you a passport?” he asked.
“Yes, I got one when I went to Martinique.”
“How long will it take you to pack?”
“Two hours.”
“The plane for England leaves on Friday at ten past eleven. I’ll send a car for you at half-past ten.”
“O.K.”
“I won’t be able to come myself. I’ll be too busy shepherding the Governor.”
“I’ll manage on my own.”
She had not looked round. She was still reading the manuscript. She lifted another page.
“I think this is the best thing you’ve done,” she said. Her calmness, even aft
er all this time, astonished him. “You don’t seem surprised,” he said.
“Surprised at your writing well. Why should I be? I think you will be famous one day.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant your not being surprised at our going to England together.”
Then she did turn round; and this time there was a surprised expression on her face.
“Where you go, I go.”
He had in that moment a shattering sense of destiny fulfilled; a sense of pride, of exultation, of simultaneous triumph and surrender; an acceptance of life’s challenge coupled with an acceptance of his fate. He knew in that moment beyond any doubt that there was only one thing for him to do.
“Are you a Catholic?” he asked.
She nodded. But even that, with his full recognition of the finality of a Catholic’s marriage vows, the closing of that easy loophole of divorce, woke in him no premonition of disaster. Their lives were already linked.
“It would be simplest if we got married before we left,” he said.
“You’d know that best.”
She turned back to the manuscript. “I’d like to borrow this. There’s too much to read now,” she said.
She picked up the thermos and poured herself out a glass. She took a sandwich from the tray. She sat on a chair facing him. “I’ve no warm clothes,” she said. “But I don’t suppose it’ll be very cold there yet.”
“We’ll hurry you straight from the airport to Debenham and Freebody’s.”
“I’ve heard of them.”
She finished her sandwich and stood up. “You must be very busy. I should be on my way.”
She crossed to the gramophone and turned it on, looking among the records for a successor. She found what she wanted and slipped it on. “Buttons and Bows.” She hummed the words, her feet moving to the rhythm. He joined her and his arms went round her. As they danced, slowly, on the small square floor, his need of her, his delight in her, once again took control of him. But there were no protestations, no special vows of loyalty. That had been decided between them a long time ago.
Chapter Thirty-Two
1
Half the population of Jamestown and a large contingent from the districts had assembled to bid Lord Templeton farewell. The airport looked like the racecourse on Governor’s Cup day, and Colonel Whittingham had mustered nine-tenths of his police force to control the crowd and supply a guard of honor.
It was a cool clear morning after two days of rain and cloud and the cane fields provided a fresh green background to the garish clothes of the chattering crowd. The fixed bayonets of the guard glittered in the sunlight. It was a gay and colored scene. The small BWIA plane that maintained biweekly a shuttle service with Antingua was reported to be on time. Templeton’s hearing was good and his ears caught the drone of its engine before his eyes had spotted it.
This is it, he thought, and moved out of the waiting room. The plane would be grounded for half an hour. That would give him plenty of time to say good-by to everyone and to inspect the guard; plenty of time and not too much time. He disliked last words. During his service he had stood on so many platforms.
Everyone of any consequence had come to wish him well. Their handshakes were firm, there was a warmth in their voices. He could have easily assured himself that they were genuinely sorry to see him go, but he knew how quickly last minute emotions can be turned on and off. Were they being overgenial to conceal an undercurrent of embarrassment? Did they realize that he was being recalled? The thing had been well covered. His appointment as Commandant had been written up to look like a promotion and it did constitute a rise in rank. It would mean eventually a higher pension. But they must know. It would be too great a coincidence otherwise. Did some of them feel resentful, did some of them feel they had been let down, were being deserted by him? Grainger might well feel that.
“I shall be making a personal report about conditions here for my successor,” he assured him. “I shall make a special point of the help that you have given me. He will, of course, know about you already. Your cricket and your football. But I shall see that he recognizes how complete was my faith in you.”
“I appreciate that very much, sir.”
The Governor paused; there was something more he might have said, about the inevitable checks that one receives in a career. But there were things better left unsaid, unless they were said at the right moment, in exactly the right way. And there was all this crowd about him. He put his hand on Grainger’s shoulder.
“Good luck, my boy. I know you’ve a big future waiting you.”
Above Grainger’s shoulder he caught a glimpse of Boyeur. He had wondered whether he would come. He had hoped he would not, but had guessed he would. Boyeur was in a difficult position. The strike had collapsed; there had been no rise in wages. It was generally agreed that he had had an extremely lucky escape. He still held his place in the Council; but there was every likelihood that union membership contributions would need a lot of collecting. He would have to watch his step very carefully for many months.
Boyeur was standing beside Muriel Grainger. So she had stuck by him. Perhaps this might make their marriage a better one. Her loyalty might touch his heart, as well as his vanity. Templeton made his way in their direction. Nine months ago he had thought that Boyeur would be easy to handle because he was a cricketer. He did not think that any longer. Boyeur was one of those men who misinterpreted everything you said or did; he was a master of the fancied affront. It was sheer luck if you did not do the wrong thing. But even so cricket was as safe a card to play as any.
Templeton asked him about his marriage plans, then turned to Muriel.
“I’m sorry I shan’t be here for it,” he said. “Let me give you some good advice instead of a casual wedding present. Make him go back to cricket. There’s always something to be complained about with any husband; there are worse fates than being a cricket widow.”
He moved on to the Prestons. “Have you any messages for anyone in England?” he asked her.
“Please give my love to Lydia.”
“Lydia?”
“Lydia Wessex. I owe her a letter. I really will write soon. Do tell her that.”
“I won’t forget.”
The Normans were next the Prestons. Norman was certainly one of those who nourished a grievance over his son-in-law’s death and over the blow to the tourist industry. He blamed it all to G.H. weakness. And he had been unlucky certainly. Someone had to pick up the bad hand in every deal. Mavis was standing beside her mother. But Sylvia was not there. Mrs. Norman apologized for her absence. “She sent you so many messages; she had wanted to come so much but she didn’t feel equal to it. All the standing in the heat.”
“I quite understand. She’s very right. I’ve thought about her a great deal. At least she has the consolation of the future.”
He turned to Mavis. She looked tired and drawn. Was she a little saddened by Euan’s leaving, by Euan’s marriage. What had there been between them? He would never know. She might so easily have been his daughter-in-law, the mother of his grandchildren. What was going to happen to her? The years were passing and she seemed headed nowhere. There were so many girls in the same position in the islands. He felt a pang of sympathy for her and for her problems. She might have become a close, integral part of his own life. Now she was going out of it along with so many others.
For ten months he had been seeing these people every day. They had become real to him. Their interests had been his interests. How few of them would he ever see again. Whom for certain besides Julian Fleury? Him, he would see often. As likely as not Julian and Betty would decide to sell out here and come back to England. With Maxwell dead and Jocelyn in England there was little to hold them to this island.
He wrung his old friend’s hand warmly.
“I’m only saying ‘au revoir’ to you two,” he said.
2
There is inevitably an anticlimax about the taking off of a plane. When a liner sails, s
treamers can be flung from deck to pier, and the colored paper strands snap one by one as the ship swings round into the harbor. On a railway station, a porter hurries down the platform, slamming doors; a green flag waves; heads lean through the windows as the train draws out. But there is such a long pause at an airport after the steps have been wheeled away; the passengers are belted in their seats; you cannot see them through the window though they possibly can still see you; the plane taxis to the runway and pauses, poised with the engines throbbing. You cannot disperse because your friends, though they are invisible to you, want to catch a last glimpse of you. They do not want to be reminded that you are about to enter, have in fact already entered a life in which they have ceased to have a part; so you stand there, gossiping together, impatient to get away.
Julian Fleury had passed his arm through his wife’s as Jocelyn paused in the doorway of the plane, at the head of the steps, to wave good-by.
“We’re just ourselves together now,” he said.
She pressed his arm against her side. In many ways her heart was heavy. First Arthur and now Maxwell. Yet even so there was a new deep peace within her heart. She was alone again with Julian: after all these years. Maxwell and Jocelyn had always been a barrier between herself and Julian; they had involved a maneuvering for position, a necessity for scheming. All that was over now. To young things like Mavis Norman and Doris Kellaway she and Julian must appear old fogies, “all passion spent,” packages upon a shelf. She was by no means sure that the best part of her life was not starting now.
A few yards away Doris Kellaway was chattering exuberantly to Mavis.
“I wonder what the new Governor will be like. I expect that he’ll be married. But I don’t suppose he’ll bring his family out here. They appoint them younger nowadays. He’ll be in the forties. That means his sons at school. I hope she’s lively, a party giver. She’ll probably choose the A.D.C. If she’s gay, she’ll choose somebody that’s fun. Denis Archer was a dud, wasn’t he? Fancy him marrying that girl. I suppose he had to, but even so. I do hope the next one’s an improvement. We’ll have loads of fun. It’s always exciting when a new Governor arrives. All the parties that there’ll be for him. It’s a pity Sylvia won’t be able to join in. We’ll have to make it up to her when she’s well again. It’ll be like the three inseparables again, only with me instead of Jocelyn. It will be fun. I used to feel so envious of you, when I was at school.”