The Rain Forest Page 21

  Hassan, who was cleaning the bar, tried to hide himself but could not. ‘Where has Mr Gunner gone?’ asked Mrs Axelrod.

  Almost too distressed to speak, Hassan said: ‘Ya Sayyidi say he eat every day at Praslin. Ya sayyidi say he no like Daisy food.’

  For a moment Mrs Axelrod seemed at a loss then, with more than her usual fierceness, she said: ‘Wait till I get my hands on ya sayyidi.’

  Ambrose remained out of sight and Hassan muddled on. A week after Mrs Gunner’s death, Simpson asked his safragi for a siphon of soda. The request was referred to Hassan behind the bar. Hassan mumbled: ‘No siphon now. All gone’, and, turning his back on the room, hoped he need hear no more about it. Ogden took the matter up in his authoritative way.

  ‘There must be siphons in the store. Send a safragi to get one.’

  Hassan turned his worn, unhappy face: ‘Not any more. Siphon all gone. Tomorrow more things gone. Soon no whisky, no gin, no rum. Soon all booze gone.’

  Ogden laughed irritably: ‘Then go to Aly’s and order more, you silly fellow.’

  Looking down, Hassan hung his head and wrung his hands. Questioned with fatherly patience, by Ogden, he said: ‘Aly say no more booze from Aly. First pay the bills.’ After which, it all came out. The kitchen was bare of necessities. Tomorrow or the next day, the guests would not even have food. Aly’s monthly account had been due for payment on the day Mrs Gunner went to hospital. Ambrose had promised to pay when she returned but she did not return. Aly was very strict about overdue bills. Had the creditor been an Arab or an African, things might have run on indefinitely but it was Aly’s policy to allow only one month’s credit. The Daisy was well into a second month. Matters were made worse by the fact that the island gossips had put it about that Ambrose was squandering money at the Praslin. That very morning, when Hassan went down to beg for the next day’s supplies, Aly had chased him from the shop.

  Hassan told all this unwillingly, his face creased with sorrow, knowing he was betraying the man who had promoted him to greatness.

  Ogden said: ‘We must corner Gunner. We must sit up and wait for him.’

  The men decided they would sit up alone. Ogden told Mrs Axelrod that he could deal more easily with Ambrose if ‘the ladies retired’. Mrs Axelrod, still excited by her own powers of leadership, was hard to persuade but eventually she and the other women did retire. Kristy, nowadays half-asleep at ten o’clock, went happily to bed but Hugh, though not in the circle of protest, remained in the salon with some idea of supporting Ambrose should Ambrose need support.

  Hassan, ordered to keep the bar open, was wretchedly on edge. When, in the early hours, Ambrose arrived back in a taxi, Hassan gazed pityingly at him and moved his head as though to say: ‘Don’t blame me, sayyid. Don’t blame me.’

  Ambrose, standing just inside the front door, saw himself ambushed. He had lost weight and was wearing a silk shirt and a new suit of cream tussore. He looked fresh and youthful, but he was in trouble. Turning quickly from side to side, he seemed to be seeking a way of escape.

  Ogden said: ‘We’ve been waiting to speak to you, Gunner. You must be aware that here, at the Daisy, things have been going from bad to worse.’

  Tackled, Ambrose at once passed the ball. He swung round and going towards the bar spoke to Hassan in a stern and lofty manner: ‘What is this I hear, Hassan? You’ve been letting things slide?’

  Hassan, bending down in anguish, whispered: ‘Aly . . .’

  ‘Oh, it’s Aly, is it? First thing tomorrow morning, go down and tell him if the food isn’t better, we’ll close our account.’

  Hassan raised his head to wail: ‘Never be better without you pay bill. No whisky, no gin, no washing-up liquid. All gone. Tomorrow no food. I work, work. The other ones do no work. They say “Why we work? Ya sayyidi pay no money.” For Akbar, they work. For me, they laugh. I do bedrooms, salon, dining-room, bar . . . I do all for you, sayyid, and what do you say me? Tomorrow, next day, when boat comes, I go to Egypt to my village.’

  Much moved, Ambrose put a hand on Hassan’s shoulder and looked reproachfully at the men around him: ‘Hassan does his best. What more can anyone ask?’

  ‘A great deal more,’ Ogden told him. ‘You owe Aly for two months’ supplies and he refuses to serve the Daisy till he’s paid. We keep our part of the bargain. We pay our monthly accounts and in return we get wretched food and deplorable service while you spend your days at the Praslin. We have waited for you in order to say that if things don’t improve, and quickly, we’ll withhold our payments till they do improve.’

  The others said: ‘That’s right.’

  During this address, Ambrose had gradually stiffened and when he spoke, he did so with extreme hauteur: ‘You will have no further cause for complaint. The pension is closing down.’

  A shock of dismay passed over the guests and Simpson shouted: ‘You can’t do that. We’ve nowhere to go.’

  Ambrose relaxed. Raising his brows, he smiled gently: ‘I must have misunderstood you. I thought you were dissatisfied and so, to please you, I decided to close the place down. However, I have no wish to disaccommodate you. My mother loved the Daisy and devoted herself to your comfort. I, myself, have had no experience of running a place like this. In view of this, I think you might have had more patience with me. I have had a worrying time, settling my mother’s affairs. However, I will go down to Aly’s tomorrow and sort things out. I am also arranging for a manager to take over here and I can assure you things will improve.’

  Murmurs of gratitude and sympathy came from among the men. Ambrose nodded, acknowledging their response and dismissing them. With nothing more to be said, they rose and took themselves up the stairs. Hugh remained seated and when he and Ambrose were alone, Ambrose said: ‘I’m getting out of this dump. Drop into the Lettuce Room tomorrow evening, before supper, and we’ll have a parting drink.’

  The Fosters were saddened by the loss of Ambrose from the Daisy but he welcomed them with so much pleasure in his position of host – a position too long denied him by poverty – that they had to see the occasion as one for gaiety.

  Four bottles and four glasses stood on the Lettuce Room table.

  ‘Mrs G.’s iron rations,’ Ambrose said. ‘I found them hidden in her wardrobe. What will you have? – whisky, gin, vodka, rum?’ He poured Kristy’s gin with a lavish hand and she did her best to drink it.

  All around them the infant lettuces stood up fresh and green, carefully tended by Hassan. The room was kept at a pleasant temperature and through the glass the stars shone like the eyes of giant cats.

  Ambrose sighed: ‘Mrs G. wouldn’t allow me in here. She thought it was a bad thing for the guests to see the family lounging about. She hardly came in herself, for the same reason. The old thing knew how to run a business and, I may say, she didn’t do badly out of it.’ There was a new splendour about Ambrose and his voice took on the exalted coo peculiar to him when he spoke of matters that gave him satisfaction: ‘Dr Dixon is her executor and he’s been more than kind. He tracked me down to the Praslin in order to let me know, on the very day of the funeral, that I was the sole heir. I was astonished. She always said she’d leave me nothing. Dixon went to see the Chief Secretary, who acts as legal representative here, and got me letters of administration. Yesterday I heard from her London solicitors who said that when everything’s cleared up, I’ll get a very tidy sum.’ Leaning towards the Fosters, he indicated with a gesture that that was not all:

  ‘And . . .’ Glancing at the door to see that none of the guests were lurking there, he lowered his voice to a whisper of immaculate clarity: ‘I have reason to hope that Lomax is about to come across.’

  ‘You mean, he’ll finance the treasure hunt?’

  Ambrose nodded, smirking: ‘We’re on much more of a footing now. Surprising how that has affected him. But we’ll speak of it another time.’

  Aglow with the munificent affability of success, Ambrose looked like the old photograph in which he resembled a young bu
ll, a bull that should be wreathed in flowers. At last, after all his ploys, projects and failures, life had rewarded him. Serene, he made small gracious gestures. He patted Kristy’s knee and his sweet voice became more sweet: ‘Think of it! A ship laden with pure gold! In these days it should be worth its weight in – what, I wonder?’

  ‘Blues and tenners?’ Kristy suggested.

  ‘My God, yes. You’re just about right.’

  He had, of course, another project. He had decided to marry again. The Fosters were eager to know who would be the bride but, alas, he had not yet met her. He put out his hand to Kristy: ‘I would like someone like Kristy here. Older, of course, but small, dark, subtle, intelligent. I have never had a wife like that before.’

  Kristy was facing the back wall of the Lettuce Room. This, like Mrs Gunner’s bedroom window, looked on to the small service courtyard. She could see directly into the kitchen where there was a great deal of merriment. The cook, a fat, dark-skinned half-breed, was seated among the debris on the kitchen table, one leg bent under him, the knee forming a prop for his other foot. The foot, sticking up in the air, was evidently the cause of all the fun. Bending over it and using one of the dining-room forks, the cook was digging something out of his sole and making the most of the operation. His dark, glistering face grimaced in simulated agony while the safragis and sweepers bent about in an ecstasy of appreciation, slapping themselves and slapping each other. He extracted a worm-like object which he held up for all to see. The worm – it certainly looked like a worm – seemed to wriggle on the fork and the cook, giving a laugh that reached the Lettuce Room, flung it backwards over his shoulder, in the direction of the pots on the stove.

  Ambrose, who had his back to this episode, said happily: ‘And I shall have work to do. I’m planning a modern Mayhew: a comprehensive study of the London underworld. Crime, sex, perversion, violence, the lot. A money-spinner.’

  ‘Has this been commissioned?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘Commissioned? No. Thank God I am no longer dependent on the good will of publishers. I do what I like. When it is finished, I shall order my agent to put the manuscript up to auction. The highest bidder will get it.’

  Hassan came to say that Lomax’s car was waiting at the door. Taking very few of his old possessions, Ambrose departed to live at the Praslin. As he had promised, he settled with Aly and the food improved. The bar was restocked, but, for the time being, Hassan remained as nominal head safragi.

  5

  Kristy realized that a new interest possessed the women at the Daisy, though they discussed it so cautiously she had no idea what it was. And she did not care. She was feeling her increasing weight and the humid heat was a burden to her. She was in a state of mental lethargy and physical well-being. Looking at herself in the glass, she smiled to see how she had changed. Ambrose had described her as ‘small, dark, subtle, intelligent’. He was remembering her as she had been when he first saw her. She had been pale, over-thin and had looked delicate. Now her face had filled out and her complexion was brilliantly pink and cream. Her breasts, that had been too small, began to strain against her cotton shirts. Big, round, pink-cheeked, she looked a totally different person. She was turning into a mother. Mentally, too, she was melting into motherhood. Her emotions were becoming very tender. Remembering how she had found her mother weeping at the police-station, she now understood why she had wept. They had fought day in, day out: they had disagreed on every subject. At times Kristy had felt pure hatred for her mother and imagined herself hated in return. Yet they were one flesh. However outrageously Kristy behaved, she remained what she had been and always would be: part of her mother. She thought: ‘I’ll write and tell her that I understand’ but from sheer lack of energy, she did not write.

  She went once a week to see Mueller. At first Hugh had felt it was his duty to go with her but he was soon discouraged for the relationship between patient and gynaecologist was so warm, so intimate, he felt an extraneous third party. After three visits, he went no more.

  On Mueller’s advice, Kristy walked, each morning, for two or three miles. She would plod up to the plantations or go along the quay to the shore road and watch the flying-fish. Having done this, she could spend the rest of the day idle and thinking of meal-times. Previously a non-eater, she now ate ravenously. When she lay about in the salon or in her own room, she was poignantly conscious of the creature developing within her. She had decided not to return home until it was born. She would not risk the long, exhausting journey. But she still thought of it as her very own, inseparable from her however separated in space, and independent and unco-operative, it might one day become. It seemed to her – a fact she faced sometimes with joy, sometimes with irritation and a sense of revolt – that she would never be free again.

  She had nothing to wear but an Arab skirt, bought in the harbour market, and a blouse to hide the gap at the waist-line. She could tell from glances in the salon that the progress of her pregnancy was being noted. It was noted most frequently by Mr Simpson who, whenever he caught her eye, parted his lips as though on the point of speech.

  Mrs Axelrod occasionally slid her eye in Kristy’s direction but looked the other way if Kristy met her glance. She had a new activity that increased her importance among her following. She was making, with an unusually large crochet-hook and some fine string, a circular table-cloth which she frequently spread out for the admiration of the others. It rapidly took on size so it was soon too big to display on the salon coffee-tables and had to be unrolled on the floor. Watching her as she crawled round it, flattening its uneven surface with the heel of her hand, Kristy thought: ‘Poor old thing, what has she got in life?’ Mrs Axelrod, unlike most of the other women who had children in England, was childless. When the talk was about schools, examinations or careers, she no longer ruled the conversation though, when possible, she gave advice as one who was likely to know more than the next woman. Still, she needed no one’s pity. She observed her work with self-congratulating complacency and spoke of it in the same way. She was frequently asked how much bigger she planned to make it. Each time she considered the question anew, saying: ‘I expect they’ll have a sizeable place. They’ll entertain in style. Big dinner parties: that sort of thing.’

  Kristy, drowsily listening in the background, had a vision of a fine manor house, a dining-room and a highly polished hunting-table overlaid with Mrs Axelrod’s lumpy string table-cloth. If the vision did not appeal to Kristy, it roused in the others envy and annoyance. As the work grew ring on ring, like the growth rings of a tree, even Mrs Prince sounded acrimonious. The work was clearly intended to mark some great occasion but, whatever the occasion was, the women felt that Mrs Axelrod was overdoing it. Or perhaps they were guilty because they themselves were not doing enough.

  Eventually, from one remark and another, Kristy learnt that the crochet-work was a wedding present. The Governor’s daughter was to marry Cyril Millman, the aide-de-camp. Oh, fortunate Miss Urquhart, Kristy thought, and was glad for the girl whom Mrs Axelrod had long written off as ‘no longer young, poor thing’ and for Millman whom Mrs Axelrod had once described as ‘one of those sort of bachelors, you know what I mean?’ It seemed that she intended now to compensate them for her earlier opinions.

  Hugh did not hear of the wedding until Pedley said: ‘Best bib and tucker tomorrow, eh?’ Seeing Hugh’s puzzlement, he said: ‘The wedding. The wedding.’ When he heard that the Fosters had not been invited, he was deeply shocked. Hugh said he did not care whether he was invited or not but his not caring had nothing to do with it. The Fosters had a right to be invited. Pedley felt this flouting of protocol was a slur on his department.

  Though he had spoken truly when he said he did not care, Hugh, alone in the office building next day, felt forlorn and aimless. The junior staff had been given a holiday and the place was as empty as when he first entered it. After monitoring a morning programme, Hugh went up to the ministerial floor. hoping to meet Diddar, Murodi or Dr Gopal, but he met no
one. The ministers had also gone to the reception. At one end of the corridor there was a window that looked towards the Residency wall. Hugh went to it and found he could see part of the palace and the famous garden. An Arab contractor had erected tents: the traditional Arab wedding tents that were appliquéd all over with linen cut-outs in umber, blue and Venetian red. In the distance he could see people moving on a corner of the terrace. He could hear the music of the police band.

  The reception, formal, dull, held at the most uncomfortable hour of the day, was the sort of entertainment he liked least: yet he was oppressed by the fact that he and Kristy had not been invited, feeling their exclusion came of a quagmire of misunderstanding. He remembered how charming Cyril Millman had been to them and wondered why he had not required their inclusion. Hugh felt they had been treated unjustly. He felt that a sinister force working away on the dark side of his life, had come between him and his true self.

  Something separated him from the world – but what? He had a habit of blaming Kristy for his troubles but he knew Kristy was only partly to blame. Many successful men had worse wives. He knew one whose wife was an alcoholic and there had been gossip about another married to a nymphomaniac. In both cases, because the man was liked, the wife was seen not as a fault but a misfortune that had to be shared.

  Supposing he had, in spite of everything, continued his writing and attained some success! Would they have treated him like this? The question was futile, of course. As a writer, he would have been his own man. He would not be in their power.

  Walking down the hill in the midday heat, he felt the silence. His feet made no sound on the sandy road. The villas were empty. No bicycles passed. The whole island, it seemed, had gone to the Residency. Only he and Kristy had been left out. They had the dining-room to themselves.