The Rain Forest Read online

  The hotel was quiet. Most of the guests were at the pool and the safragis were preparing the buffet on the terrace. They could be seen passing and re-passing, carrying dishes to the buffet and placing them among mosses and leaves. A screen of transparent cords – silk or nylon, Hugh thought – hung round the awning, enclosing the terrace and splintering the light into rays of red and blue.

  The buffet would soon be ready and Hugh wondered whether he should speak now or wait till after luncheon. He caught the creamy smell of a cigar and, looking round, found Lomax standing behind him, waiting for an invitation to join the party. The last person Hugh wanted here was Gurgur’s friend, Lomax. He thought: ‘For God’s sake, go away’ but Ambrose, with offhanded liberality, said: ‘Sit down, do. What are you going to drink?’

  Lomax sat next to Hugh and they both watched Ambrose fooling with Kristy, talking nonsense that served as conversation until the head safragi pushed open the doors to the terrace and announced that the buffet awaited them.

  Ambrose caught Kristy’s hands and pulled her up: ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘I’m always hungry.’

  ‘Then let’s serve ourselves before the wolves come up from the water-hole.’

  Out on the terrace, Hugh saw that the fringe round the awning was not silk or nylon: it was water. Water flowing over the awning and falling like rain to the ground, made the terrace as cool as the rest of the hotel. The guests, coming up from the pool, splashed in through the water curtain and shook themselves with a lot of laughter. They were probably not the people that Hugh and Kristy had seen on their first visit, but they looked the same: big, blonde, busty women withered by the sun and self-satisfied men flaunting their virile good looks. The safragis, though they should have become immune by now, were still goggling at the naked bosoms. As the guests crowded in, shouting to each other, piling their plates with the sea-creatures that had died to feed them, the air that had been cool and vinegary became steamy with the heat of so much flesh.

  Ambrose, a guest himself, made his way good-humouredly through the press of bodies as he led his party back to the room: ‘Pleasanter to eat in here, I think.’ They sat down where they had sat before.

  Lomax spoke quietly to Hugh: ‘Something is worrying you, Mr Foster.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Hugh looked at Ambrose but Ambrose was taking Kristy back to the terrace so she could refill her plate. For want of anyone else to whom he could tell his troubles, Hugh told them to Lomax: ‘I know Gurgur is a friend of yours. It was unfortunate that Kristy was rude to him. Now he’s turning us out of our room at the Daisy. He wants to put us into Mrs Gunner’s old room which is scarcely big enough for one person, let alone two. Kristy – I don’t need to tell you – is having a baby and it’s unfair to move her now. I came here to have a word with Ambrose. I’m hoping he’ll speak to Gurgur.’

  ‘Will that do any good?’

  ‘The Daisy belongs to him. Surely the final word will be with him?’

  A smile afflicted Lomax’s face and he turned his head as though to hide it. It was a smile of embarrassment and discomfort. The gold table in front of them had an inlay of coromandel wood. As though unwilling to say what he had to say, he traced one of the rose-purple markings with his finger, murmuring, ‘I don’t know . . . I don’t think . . .’ He finally said: ‘The Daisy doesn’t belong to Ambrose. Technically, at the moment, it belongs to no one: but Gurgur is the virtual owner. He has paid a large sum into Ambrose’s account and as soon as the will is proved, the pension will be made over to him.’

  Hugh, unable to speak, let his breath out with a sigh.

  ‘It is a pity Mrs Foster was impolite to Gurgur. He is a strange man. He has a great fondness for ladies and is kind to the girls he employs. Had your wife not been impetuous . . . Had she, for instance, reproved him lightly, he would have taken it differently. You would have had no trouble.’

  ‘She does fly off the handle at times.’

  Hugh watched Kristy and Ambrose coming back from the terrace hand in hand, coquetting absurdly with each other, and he realized she had been courting Ambrose to ensure his protection against Gurgur. Hugh felt sorry for her.

  With some idea of warning her and putting a stop to her nonsense, he said rather too sharply: ‘We must go, Kristy.’

  His tone bewildered her. Ambrose put his arm round her: ‘Of course you mustn’t go. You can’t take Kristy away. I want her to have some millionaire’s salad. Do you know why it’s called that? Because it is made of palm heart. To get one dish of salad, they have to sacrifice a whole tree.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like that,’ Kristy said.

  ‘Neither would I.’ Hugh stood up. He had intended to go without explanation but his disappointment had been too painful and he spoke in spite of himself: ‘How could you sell the Daisy to Gurgur? To Gurgur, of all people?’

  Startled, Ambrose said: ‘Who told you that?’

  It was evident that his dealings with Gurgur, probably illegal, were to be kept secret. He glanced at Lomax, recognized the culprit then looked back at Hugh, trying to justify himself: ‘What could I do? Gurgur wanted the Daisy and I wanted the money. I may say,’ he became confiding as though what he had to say made all good, ‘the Daisy’s days are numbered. Gurgur’s only interested in the site. He wants to pull the house down and build an hotel.’

  ‘He won’t get planning permission.’

  ‘He will, sooner or later. He knows his way around.’

  ‘I hope he bloody well gets his fingers burned.’

  Ambrose, who had not known that Hugh was capable of anger, stared unhappily at him: ‘Be reasonable, Hugh. Don’t spoil the party.’

  Hugh signalled to Kristy who now was no more ready to stay than he was. Lomax came with them to the hall, offering them a lift back in his car. Ambrose followed with a lame look, his great face settled again into the rubbery mounds and runnels of late middle age.

  When they were in the car, Lomax spoke through the window ‘I could telephone Gurgur and try to talk him round. He might change his decision.’

  ‘We’d be grateful if you would.’

  Nursing this slight hope, they were driven back to the uncertainties of the Daisy.

  7

  When Monday came, the Fosters were still in the balcony room.

  ‘And I’ve every intention of staying there,’ Hugh said. He would not tell Kristy what he had decided to do but, inspired by the fact she now seemed the weaker of the two, he sent in a request for an audience with Sir George Easterbrook.

  The request had to be made through Pedley who treated it with suspicion: ‘What d’you want to see him about?’

  Hugh, grown cunning, said: ‘Kristy’s having a baby. I’ve decided to put in for a permanent appointment.’

  ‘Ho, ho!’ Pedley could not hide his delight that Hugh, who had flaunted his independence, was now seeking a way into the machine: ‘I don’t think they’ll wear that. You scraped into a temporary post because of special skills but I can tell you this, for one thing: pukka officials are not allowed to owe money to the Inland Revenue.’

  ‘I’m paying it off. I’ll be out of debt in a year or so.’

  ‘Yes, well, perhaps. Sir George’s a busy man. Don’t expect he’ll see you.’

  At the end of the morning, Hugh was summoned to Sir George’s office. This time the summons did not disturb him. He went to his appointment with the cool resolution of a friendless man who has nothing to lose. He was equally unmoved by Sir George, who welcomed him as an old and trusted colleague whom he was glad to see: ‘Hope you’re settling down all right, Foster?’

  The only thing that disconcerted Hugh was the fact he did not have Sir George to himself. Two Arab engineers were in the room, squatting down by the skirting board which they had pulled out from the wall so they could get at the wiring behind. Fearful of being overheard and reported back to Gurgur, Hugh edged his chair closer to the desk and spoke in a quiet voice: ‘I need your help, sir. We live at the Daisy Pension. Six
months ago, when we arrived here, we were put by mistake into a room reserved for Mr and Mrs Ogden. The Ogdens very kindly allowed us to keep it.’

  ‘I heard something about that.’ Sir George spoke sympathetically but, to remind Hugh that time was precious, he pulled up his cuff and exposed his wrist-watch.

  Hugh spoke more quickly: ‘The problem is this, sir. The pension has been taken over by a Mr Gurgur who has ordered us to move into a small, airless, noisy room beside the kitchen. My wife is very upset.’

  ‘Um.’ Sir George shook his head slowly: ‘I foresaw this sort of thing. Ten years ago I indented for a residential club to house the lower-paid officials but the F.O. said: “No go.” To them the Daisy was as good as government property and Mrs Gunner immortal. They’ve been proved wrong. I’m old in the service. I’ve seen the empire go down. Once we were as gods: now we’re beholden to the whims of a levantine brothel-keeper.’ Sir George drew in his breath and slowly let it out: ‘But what can I do?’

  ‘You could requisition our present room and keep us in it.’

  ‘Only in an emergency.’

  ‘This is an emergency. I was given this temporary job because no one in the service could do . . . I mean, wanted it. I’ve no perks or pension rights but, having come all this way, I think we’ve a right to reasonable accommodation. My wife is going to have a baby. No one should have to keep an infant in the room Gurgur has offered us. If we’re forced into it . . .’ Hugh had meant to say he would take his wife back to England but in the face of Sir George’s kindness, he said: ‘our position will be intolerable.’

  He could see that his anguish, his obvious need, impressed Sir George as threats would not have done. Sir George picked up his pen: ‘We’ll have a go. I’ll slap an order on him and if he ignores it . . . well, we’ll think again.’

  The order was written. Putting it in an envelope and handing it to Hugh, he said: ‘Get Pedley to send that.’ He rose and held out his hand. Hugh, amazed that he had accomplished so much, expressed his lightness of heart by asking about the engineers:

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. They’ve been going round all the upper floors. The contractors balled-up the wiring and these fellows are putting things right. Good-bye, Foster, and good luck.’

  Hugh went away, glowing with the comradeship that he felt to be between them.

  That same morning, returning from her walk, Kristy found three strange women in her room. They were unpacking suitcases. Akbar, in the background, making no move to help, was watching them with a protective benevolence.

  The women were surprised when Kristy entered. She said: ‘This is my room.’

  They looked at one another and spoke in French among themselves. Kristy saw that two of them were teenage girls, the other a woman of forty; a mother and daughters, dark, plump, short, pretty, all much alike. The girls, puzzled and timid, put down the clothes they were holding and moved behind their mother. She eyed Kristy, noting her pregnancy and her appearance of emotional weakness, and was about to approach her when Akbar took over the situation. Assuming his most domineering manner, he pointed to the door and ordered Kristy out.

  ‘Yo’ go now, sayyida. Yo’ room now Mis’ Gunner room. Akbar take all yo’ things Mis’ Gunner room. No more here. All gone. Yo’ go Mis’ Gunner room.’

  Kristy stood at a loss, afraid if she opened her mouth she would burst into tears. The woman, unimpressed by Akbar, said: ‘So this is your room, yes? I might have known there was a trick being played. This fellow,’ she indicated Akbar, ‘let me think he was the Praslin courier. He had a taxi waiting and brought us here. I asked: ‘Can this be the Praslin?’ He said it was better than the Praslin and cheaper and there was a very nice room. We looked and, yes, the room is nice. I said we would take it, but . . .’ she swung round on Akbar, nodding in a threatening way: ‘I should have known. I should have known.’

  Akbar, furious that his trick was turning against him, caught the woman by the shoulder and pushed her towards the balcony: ‘Yo’ stay there, sayyida. This not yo’ business. This Akbar business. Yo’ not speak her.’

  The woman struck off his hand. Beside herself that he had dared to touch her, she seemed to spark with rage. Breaking into Arabic, she set about him with virulent contempt. Akbar, used to the liberal, inhibited manners of the English, had forgotten that there were others less forbearing in their dealings with servants. Kristy did not know what the woman was saying, but she saw its effect on Akbar. He was deeply shocked. His eyes rolled in horror and his dark, bloomy skin took on a greyish tinge. He made a croaking noise but could find no words and, abjectly silenced, he looked to Kristy as though she should defend him.

  Kristy, troubled by the whole scene, said: ‘It’s probably not his fault. The owner here has been trying to get us out of this room.’

  ‘No matter.’ The woman turned to Kristy: ‘I have told him to get me a taxi. I will not stay here to be touched by a dog, a jackal, a descendant of slaves.’

  Akbar, his great, globular eyes almost falling from their sockets, spread both his monstrous hands on his chest and cried: ‘Akbar no slave man. Akbar very big fellow in Soudanese country.’

  The woman, shouting ‘Halan, halan’, waved him away then patted Kristy’s arm: ‘You English do not know how to treat such people. Now, we pack again and go to the Praslin. You ask me, why did we think at all of this pension?’ She laughed: ‘I do not know. Sometimes it seems good to save a little money, but how foolish! I hope all is well with you, ma chère.’

  When the taxi arrived, Hassan and Negumi were sent up for the luggage. Akbar kept out of sight. The taxi drove off with the three women and Kristy went in search of her clothes and Hugh’s clothes. They had been thrown down roughly in Mrs Gunner’s room, some on the bed and some on the floor. The wardrobe stood open and Kristy saw that Mrs Gunner’s garments were still hanging inside. They were bright garments, mostly red or gold, sequinned dresses and jackets, child-size trouser suits, little shoes, all bearing the imprint of her body and redolent of gin and cigarette-smoke.

  Kristy carried the Fosters’ possessions back to the balcony room, transporting them in five trips, then she fell on the bed and slept, exhausted.

  Since the incident with Akbar, the Ogdens had kept themselves in mental seclusion. There were no affable exchanges with Simpson, no friendly talk with the Axelrods, no word at all from them until the day Kristy found the women in her room. That evening, coming in to dinner, Ogden quietly announced that he and his wife were leaving the Daisy. Mrs Hampton, hearing how Ogden’s dignity had been affronted, had invited them to share her villa for the few months that remained before his retirement. There were murmurs of regret at their going and envy of their new dwelling-place, but the remarks were fraught with uncertainty and shame. For the sake of peace and comfort, their friends had failed them and Ogden, though he reproached no one, looked sadly from face to face. When he reached the Fosters, he looked not only sad but worried as though he felt they had failed him most. He had given up the balcony room to a young couple in love, an ideal young couple wrapped up in bed together ‘like puppies in a basket’, a vision that may have reminded him of his own youth. And how mistaken he had been!

  When the day of their departure arrived, Mrs Axelrod tried to break into the Ogdens’ restraint, saying: ‘I won’t say “good-bye” because you’ll be coming back to see us very often.’

  Ogden agreed: ‘Oh, yes, indeed!’ but no one believed him.

  A few days before this, the office porter had delivered Sir George’s letter of requisition. Kristy, sitting in the salon, saw Akbar and the porter talking in low voices with exaggerated gestures of dismay and horror. The porter, who gossiped with the typists, knew what was in the letter and though the matter had nothing to do with him, courtesy required him to condole with Akbar and condemn the British and all their works. Akbar, carrying the letter through the salon, was stopped in his tracks by the sight of Kristy and opening his eyes very wide, he ga
ve a long hiss of indignation.

  She foresaw some dramatic reaction to the letter, expecting Gurgur to rush out on her or other strangers to appear in her room. Nothing happened at all. That evening she and Hugh drank to Sir George and Kristy, pressing Hugh’s hand, said: ‘You’ve been very clever.’ Hugh laughed, feeling that when he cared to take action, he could do as well as the next man.

  He was surprised to find at the office, next day, that he had roused Pedley’s rancour.

  ‘A nice bit of business, I must say,’ said Pedley, ‘that letter you got Easterbrook to send. The others won’t like it, you know.’

  Hugh could not understand why anyone should dislike it. No one had a good word for Gurgur. It was not known whether he lived at the pension but the sense of him pervaded the house as though a corpse had been walled up in its fabric.

  ‘Why should they mind?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘It’s your attitude they don’t like. You think, because you’re the bright swinging chicks, you should get the best room in the pension. If you don’t, you rush upstairs and blackmail Sir George.’

  ‘I told him my wife’s having a baby.’

  ‘And why can’t your wife go back home like every other wife who has a baby? Because, whatever happens, you’re a special case. You don’t even mix with your own group in the service. I’m told you’re seen around with a pretty dodgy crowd. In this place, it doesn’t pay to mix with outsiders.’

  ‘What is Gopal? – insider or outsider?’

  Pedley stared at Hugh, the yellow growths standing out from the liverish white of his eyes, and spoke distinctly: ‘Gopal is a source of information, though he doesn’t know it. He thinks he’s the clever one. He thinks he’s the fixer. Fact is, he talks too much. He gives himself away. All these speculators who see money in Bustan – they all go to work through Gopal. When he comes asking for favours, I know just who’s on the make now. At the moment he’s working on behalf of your friend Lomax and it’ll do Lomax no good at all.’