“I was born here,” he said, “and I shall die here. I’m a stranger in England. I don’t like their ways over there and I don’t understand the things they talk about. And yet I’m a stranger here too. To the Malays and the Chinese I’m a white man, though I speak Malay as well as they do, and a white man I shall always be.” Then he said a significant thing. “Of course if I’d had any sense I’d have married a Malay girl and had half a dozen half-caste kids. That’s the only solution really for us chaps who were born and bred here.”
Grange’s bitterness was greater than could be explained by his financial embarrassment. He had little good to say of any of the white men in the colony. He seemed to think that they despised him because he was native-born. He was a sour, disappointed fellow, and a conceited one. He had shown Skelton his books. There were not many of them, but they were the best on the whole that English literature can show; he had read them over and over again; but it looked as though he had learnt from them neither charity nor loving-kindness, it looked as though their beauty had left him unmoved; and to know them so well had only made him self-complacent. His exterior, which was so hearty and English, seemed to have little relation to the man within; you could not resist the suspicion that it masked a very sinister being.
Early next morning, to enjoy the cool of the day, Skelton, with his pipe and a book, was sitting on the veranda outside his room. He was still very weak, but felt much better. In a little while Mrs Grange joined him. She held in her hand a large album.
“I thought I’d like to show you some of me old photos and me notices. You mustn’t think I always looked like what I do now. He’s off on his round and he won’t be back for two or three hours yet.”
Mrs Grange, in the same blue dress she had worn the day before, her hair as untidy, appeared strangely excited.
“It’s all I have to remind me of the past. Sometimes when I can’t bear life any more I look at my album.”
She sat by Skelton’s side as he turned the pages. The notices were from provincial papers, and the references to Mrs Grange, whose stage name had been apparently Vesta Blaise, were carefully underlined. From the photographs, you could see that she had been pretty enough in an undistinguished way. She had acted in musical comedy and revue, in farce and comedy, and taking the photographs and the notices together it was easy to tell that here had been the common, dreary, rather vulgar career of the girl with no particular talent who has taken to the stage on the strength of a pretty face and a good figure. Her head twitching, her hand shaking, Mrs Grange looked at the photographs and read the notices with as much interest as if she had never seen them before.
“You’ve got to have influence on the stage, and I never had any,” she said. “If I’d only had my chance I know I’d have made good. I had bad luck, there’s no doubt about that.”
It was all sordid and somewhat pathetic.
“I daresay you’re better off as you are,” said Skelton.
She snatched the book from him and shut it with a bang. She had a paroxysm so violent that it was really frightening to look at her.
“What d’you mean by that? What d’you know about the life I lead here? I’d have killed myself years ago only I know he wants me to die. That’s the only way I can get back on him, by living, and I’m going to live; I’m going to live as long as he does. Oh, I hate him. I’ve often thought I’d poison him, but I was afraid. I didn’t know how to do it really, and if he died the Chinks would foreclose and I’d be turned out. And where should I go then? I haven’t a friend in the world.”
Skelton was aghast. It flashed through his mind that she was crazy. He hadn’t a notion what to say. She gave him a keen look.
“I suppose it surprises you to hear me talk like that. I mean it, you know, every word of it. He’d like to kill me too, but he daren’t either. And he knows how to do it all right. He knows how the Malays kill people. He was born here. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about the country.”
Skelton forced himself to speak.
“You know, Mrs Grange, I’m a total stranger. Don’t you think it’s rather unwise to tell me all sorts of things there’s no need for me to know? After all, you live a very solitary life. I daresay you get on one another’s nerves. Now that things are looking up perhaps you’ll be able to take a trip to England.”
“I don’t want to go to England. I’d be ashamed to let them see me like I am now. D’you know how old I am? Forty-six. I look sixty and I know it. That’s why I showed you those photos, so as you might see I wasn’t always like what I am now. Oh, my God, how I’ve wasted my life! They talk of the romance of the East. They can have it. I’d rather be a dresser in a provincial theatre, I’d rather be one of the sweepers that keep it clean, than what I am now. Until I came here I’d never been alone in my life, I’d always lived in a crowd; you don’t know what it is to have nobody to talk to from year’s end to year’s end. To have to keep it all bottled up. How would you like to see no one, week in and week out, day after day for sixteen years, except the man you hate most in the world? How would you like to live for sixteen years with a man who hates you so he can’t bear to look at you?”
“Oh, come, it can’t be as bad as that.”
“I’m telling you the truth. Why should I tell you a lie? I shall never see you again; what do I care what you think of me? And if you tell them what I’ve said when you get down to the coast, what’s the odds? They’ll say: ‘God, you don’t mean to say you stayed with those people? I pity you. He’s an outsider and she’s crazy; got a tic; they say it looks as if she was always trying to wipe the blood off her dress. They were mixed up in a damned funny business, but no one ever really knew the ins and outs of it; it all happened a long time ago and the country was pretty wild in those days.’ A damned funny business and no mistake. I’d tell you for two pins. That would be a bit of dirt for them at the club. You wouldn’t have to pay for a drink for days. Damn them. Oh, Christ, how I hate this country. I hate that river. I hate this house. I hate that damned rubber. I loathe the filthy natives. And that’s all I’ve got to look forward to till I die-till I die without a doctor to take care of me, without a friend to hold me hand.”
She began to cry hysterically. Mrs Grange had spoken with a dramatic intensity of which Skelton would never have thought her capable. Her coarse irony was as painful as her anguish. Skelton was young, he was not yet thirty, and he did not know how to deal with the difficult situation. But he could not keep silent.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Grange. I wish I could do something to help you.”
“I’m not asking for your help. No one can help me.”
Skelton was distressed. From what she said he could not but suspect that she had been concerned in a mysterious and perhaps dreadful occurrence, and it might be that to tell him about it without fear of consequences was just the relief she needed.
“I don’t want to butt into what’s no business of mine, but, Mrs Grange, if you think it would ease your mind to tell me-what you were referring to just now, I mean what you said was a damned funny business, I promise you on my word of honour that I’ll never repeat it to a living soul.”
She stopped crying quite suddenly and gave him a long, intent look. She hesitated. He had an impression that the desire to speak was almost irresistible. But she shook her head and sighed.
“It wouldn’t do any good. Nothing can do me any good.”
She got up and abruptly left him.
The two men sat down to brunch by themselves.
“My wife asks you to excuse her,” said Grange. “She’s got one of her sick headaches and she’s staying in bed today.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Skelton had a notion that in the searching look that Grange gave him was mistrust and animosity. It flashed through his mind that somehow he had discovered that Mrs Grange had been talking to him and perhaps had said things that should have been left unsaid. Skelton made an effort at conversation, but his host was taciturn, and they end
ed the meal in a silence that was only broken by Grange when he got up.
“You seem pretty fit today and I don’t suppose you want to stay in this God-forsaken place longer than you must. I’ve sent over the river to arrange for a couple of prahus to take you down to the coast. They’ll be here at six tomorrow morning.”
Skelton felt sure then that he was right; Grange knew or guessed that his wife had spoken too freely, and he wanted to be rid as soon as possible of the dangerous visitor.
“That’s terribly kind of you,” Skelton answered, smiling. “I’m as fit as a fiddle.”
But in Grange’s eyes was no answering smile. They were coldly hostile.
“We might have another game of chess later on,” said he.
“All right. When d’you get back from your office?”
“I haven’t got much to do there today. I shall be about the house.”
Skelton wondered if it were only his fancy that there was something very like a threat in the tone in which Grange uttered these words. It looked as though he were going to make sure that his wife and Skelton should not again be left alone. Mrs Grange did not come to dinner. They drank their coffee and smoked their cheroots. Then Grange, pushing back his chair, said:
“You’ve got to make an early start tomorrow. I daresay you’d like to turn in. I shall have started out on my round by the time you go, so I’ll say good-bye to you now.”
“Let me get my guns. I want you to take the one you like best.”
“I’ll tell the boy to fetch them.”
The guns were brought and Grange made his choice. He gave no sign that he was pleased with the handsome gift.
“You quite understand that this gun’s worth a damned sight more than what your food and drink and smoke have run me into?” he said.
“For all I know you saved my life. I don’t think an old gun is an over-generous return for that.”
“Oh, well, if you like to look at it that way, I suppose it’s your own business. Thank you very much all the same.”
They shook hands and parted.
Next morning, while the baggage was being stowed away in the prahus, Skelton asked the house boy whether, before starting, he could say good-bye to Mrs Grange. The house boy said he would go and see. He waited a little while. Mrs Grange came out of her room on to the veranda. She was wearing a pink dressing-gown, shabby, rumpled, and none too clean, of Japanese silk, heavily trimmed with cheap lace. The powder was thick on her face, her cheeks were rouged and her lips scarlet with lipstick. Her head seemed to twitch more violently than usual and her hand was agitated by that strange gesture. When first Skelton saw it he had thought that it suggested a wish to call attention to something behind her back, but now, after what she had told him yesterday, it did indeed look as though she was constantly trying to brush something off her dress. Blood, she had said.
“I didn’t want to go without thanking you for all your kindness to me,” he said.
“Oh, that’s all right.”
“Well, good-bye.”
“I’ll walk down with you to the landing-stage.”
They hadn’t far to go. The boatmen were still arranging the luggage. Skelton looked across the river where you could see some native houses.
“I suppose these men come from over there. It looks quite a village.”
“No, only those few houses. There used to be a rubber estate there, but the company went broke and it was abandoned.”
“D’you ever go over there?”
“Me?” cried Mrs Grange. Her voice rose shrill and her head, her hand, were on a sudden convulsed by a paroxysm of involuntary movement. “No. Why should I?”
Skelton could not imagine why that simple question, asked merely for something to say, should so greatly upset her. But by now all was in order and he shook hands with her. He stepped into the boat and comfortably settled down. They pushed off. He waved to Mrs Grange. As the boat slid into the current she cried out with a harsh, strident scream:
“Give my regards to Leicester Square.”
Skelton heaved a great sigh of relief as with their powerful strokes the paddlers took him farther and farther away from that dreadful house and from those two unhappy and yet repellent people. He was glad now that Mrs Grange had not told him the story that was on the tip of her tongue to tell. He did not want some tragic tale of sin or folly to connect him with them in a recollection that he could not escape. He wanted to forget them as one forgets a bad dream.
But Mrs Grange watched the two prahus till a bend of the river took them out of sight. She walked slowly up to the house and went into her bedroom. The light was dim because the blinds were drawn to keep out the heat, but she sat down at her dressing-table and stared at herself in the glass. Norman had had the dressing-table made for her soon after they were married. It had been made by a native carpenter, of course, and they had had the mirror sent from Singapore, but it was made to her own design, of the exact size and shape she wanted, with plenty of room for all her toilet things and her make-up. It was the dressing-table she had hankered after for donkey’s years and had never had. She remembered still how pleased she was when first she had it. She threw her arms round her husband’s neck and kissed him.
“Oh, Norman, you are good to me,” she said. “I’m a lucky little girl to have caught a chap like you, aren’t I?”
But then everything delighted her. She was amused by the river life and the life of the jungle, the teeming growth of the forest, the birds with their gay plumage and the brilliant butterflies. She set about giving the house a woman’s touch; she put out all her own photographs and she got vases to put flowers in; she routed around and got a lot of knick-knacks to place here and there. “They make a room look homey,” she said. She wasn’t in love with Norman, but she liked him all right; and it was lovely to be married; it was lovely to have nothing to do from morning till night, except play the gramophone, or patience, and read novels. It was lovely to think one hadn’t got to bother about one’s future. Of course it was a bit lonely sometimes, but Norman said she’d get used to that, and he’d promised that in a year, or two at the outside, he’d take her to England for three months. It would be a lark to show him off to her friends. She felt that what had caught him was the glamour of the stage and she’d made herself out a good deal more successful than she really had been. She wanted him to realize that she’d made a sacrifice when she’d thrown up her career to become a planter’s wife. She’d claimed acquaintance with a good many stars that in point of fact she’d never even spoken to. That would need a bit of handling when they went home, but she’d manage it; after all, poor Norman knew no more about the stage than a babe unborn, if she couldn’t cod a simple fellow like that, after twelve years on the stage, well, she’d wasted her time, that’s all she could say. Things went all right the first year. At one moment she thought she was going to have a baby. They were both disappointed when it turned out not to be true. Then she began to grow bored. It seemed to her that she’d done the same damned thing day after day for ever and it frightened her to think that she’d have to go on doing the same damned thing day after day for ever more. Norman said he couldn’t leave the plantation that year. They had a bit of a scene. It was then that he’d said something that scared her.
“I hate England,” he said. “If I had my way I’d never set foot in the damned country again.”
Living this lonely life Mrs Grange got into the habit of talking out loud to herself. Shut up in her room she could be heard chattering away hour after hour; and now, dipping the puff in her powder and plastering her face with it, she addressed her reflection in the mirror exactly as though she were talking to another person.
“That ought to have warned me. I should have insisted on going by myself, and who knows, I might have got a job when I got to London. With all the experience I had and everything. Then I’d have written to him and said I wasn’t coming back.” Her thoughts turned to Skelton. “Pity I didn’t tell him,” she continued. “I
had half a mind to. P’raps he was right, p’raps it would have eased me mind. I wonder what he’d have said.” She imitated his Oxford accent. “I’m so terribly sorry, Mrs Grange. I wish I could help you.” She gave a chuckle which was almost a sob. “I’d have liked to tell him about Jack. Oh, Jack.”
It was when they had been married for two years that they got a neighbour. The price of rubber at that time was so high that new estates were being put under cultivation and one of the big companies had bought a great tract of land on the opposite bank of the river. It was a rich company and everything was done on a lavish scale. The manager they had put in had a launch at his disposal so that it was no trouble for him to pop over and have a drink whenever he felt inclined. Jack Carr his name was. He was quite a different sort of chap from Norman; for one thing he was a gentleman, he’d been to a public school and a university; he was about thirty-five, tall, not beefy like Norman, but slight, he had the sort of figure that looked lovely in evening dress; and he had crisply curling hair and a laughing look in his eyes. Just her type. She took to him at once. It was a treat, having someone you could talk about London to, and the theatre. He was gay and easy. He made the sort of jokes you could understand. In a week or two she felt more at home with him than she did with her husband after two years. There had always been something about Norman that she hadn’t quite been able to get to the bottom of. He was crazy about her, of course, and he’d told her a lot about himself, but she had a funny feeling that there was something he kept from her, not because he wanted to, but-well, you couldn’t hardly explain it, because it was so alien, you might say, that he couldn’t put it into words. Later, when she knew Jack better, she mentioned it to him, and Jack said it was because he was country-born; even though he hadn’t a drop of native blood in his veins, something of the country had gone to the making of him so that he wasn’t white really; he had an Eastern streak in him. However hard he tried he could never be quite English.
The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - II - The World Over Page 15
