by Paul Theroux
She said, “I imagined you’d be very severe and scientific.”
“Perhaps I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“My Africans used to do imitations of me, behind my back. They thought I was a bit of a taskmaster.”
“Did that upset you?”
“They can be tricky little bastards.”
Then she did something that aroused Munday; she closed her eyes and smiled and rocked her head back on her long neck.
“I agree,” Awdry said, and he began to tell a story of African treachery.
In an effort to conceal his submissive interest in Caroline, Munday pretended to listen to the story (it concerned an African’s clumsy forgery of a local chief’s official papers), for he sensed the interest was obvious on his face. But attempting to suppress it he felt it more deeply, as he had with Alice. He remembered that he had fled the daughter, not the mother, and he saw himself as a weak man, incomplete, who had denied himself passion, though he had seen it enacted close to him, while he had stayed on its periphery, observing, sometimes mocking, never venturing nearer. He saw that his severity was fear, and what virtue he had always claimed for himself was cowardice.
“What happened to the African?” Caroline was saying.
“Him? Oh, we let him go,” said Awdry. “The Crown had a case against him, but we weren’t sure how it would go down locally. He was in the wrong, of course—everyone knew that. As it turned out, he would have been safer with us.”
“Safer?” Caroline became interested. “But you said he was free.”
“He got a dose of village justice,” said Awdry. He winked at Munday. Munday shrugged.
“That sounds ominous,” said Caroline.
“It was quite a field-day,” said Awdry. “Mob of people pounced on him, sank their teeth into him and spat out the pieces. Everyone was laughing—Africans find torture frightfully amusing. When the poor chap died they assumed he must have been guilty.”
“I never believe a word you say,” said Caroline. “They can’t be as bloodthirsty as that.”
“Doctor Munday will vouch for me,” said Awdry.
“Two points,” said Munday in his tutorial manner. “One, there’s usually some kind of deliberation before a man is found guilty. And, two, where property is involved the punishment is fairly harsh.” He went on, though in doing so he felt an awkward sense of betraying people he knew for people who were only interested in discrediting Africans. It was the penalty of his long residence among Africans, he believed: his knowledge of them only seemed to incriminate them. But he was anxious to hold Caroline’s attention. He said, “I remember an African who got a five-inch nail hammered into his skull. He had killed his wife at a beer party. I’ve heard of others who’ve had their feet chopped off—and they still use the ant-hill in some parts of Uganda. A Chiga girl who commits incest is thrown over a cliff by her father—”
“Why that’s savage,” said Caroline, her eyes flashing.
“Perhaps no worse than our own death penalty,” said Munday. “The gallows, what-have-you.”
“You’re way out of date,” said Awdry. He was laughing.
“Capital punishment’s been abolished,” said Caroline.
“I had no idea,” said Munday.
“Bloody silly, if you ask me,” said Awdry. “But there it is. Ah, here comes Jerry. We ean eat.” Jerry, the last guest to arrive, was out of breath, apologizing for being late as he handed his coat to Awdry. On the way over, he said, he had stopped to have a look at his cows and had found one which hadn’t been milked. The milking had delayed him.
“Jerry’s the only one who really belongs here,” said Caroline. “The rest of us are all foreigners.”
“The native among the expatriates,” muttered Munday.
“I was bom up the road,” he said to Munday. “Broadwindsor way.”
He was young, with a frank sunburned face, and square shoulders that had stretched his fashionable suit-jacket out of shape. Though his movements were shy—he glanced continually at his hands and heavy shoes—he had a clipped way of speaking, the local accent Peter Motherwell had tried to imitate (Jerry was saying, with the guileless scorn of a Bwamba, why his wife had had to stay at home). Now Munday understood the embarrassment of Peter’s mimicry. It was that of the settler joke, told when the houseboy was in the kitchen.
“Doctor Munday. Jerry Duddle,” said Caroline. “Doctor Munday’s been telling us the most horrible stories.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Jerry.
Munday was about to ask him about his farm when Janet came over and asked, “Jerry, do you have any views on hunting?”
“I don’t hunt much myself,” said Jerry. “Don’t have time for it—too busy with the farm. I do a little fishing.”
“But, don’t you agree that hunting’s cruel?” Janet had stepped in front of Munday and was facing Jerry. “Cruel? In what way?”
“It’s bloody.”
“Bloody expensive,” said Jerry. “Those floats set you back a few quid.”
Janet raised her eyes to the ceiling and said, “I suppose I’m alone in thinking it should be banned.” Jerry said, “I always say if people can afford to do something, and they enjoy doing it, who am I to tell them they’re wrong?”
“That’s our boy,” said Awdry; and Peter said, “Hear, hear!” Awdry crossed the room to show Anne Motherwell and Michael Strick and the vicar’s wife a framed photograph on the wall, a group of Africans on the bank of a flood-swollen river, near which a Land Rover was parked. Awdry said, “Five minutes after that picture was taken, this old man was drowned trying to ford the river.” Munday was on his way over to see the photograph of the doomed man. He noticed Emma near the fire, her hands clasped on a drink. She was alone.
“Are you all right?”
“I thought I was going to faint,” Emma said. “I think I startled that young man.”
Munday wondered which young man she was talking about. He looked around the room and then said, “Seems they’ve abolished capital punishment. I had no idea. That Summers woman was telling me.” '7 could have told you that,” said Emma.
“What’s wrong?” said Munday. “You seem cross.”
“I’m not well,” said Emma. “And I don’t like that woman.”
“Why? You don’t even know her.”
“I know her,” said Emma. “She wants you.”
“Don’t be silly.” Munday saw Caroline seated on the arm of a chair.
'‘I can tell—a woman can always tell. She’s making a play for you.”
Munday said, “You’ve had too much to drink.”
“This is tap water,” said Emma. “That young man fetched it. I thought I was going to faint.” But Munday was staring at Caroline. He said, “How do you know she’s making a play for me? I didn’t say two words to her.”
“Something in her face—the way she was standing,” said Emma. “She stares at you.”
“Is that all!”
“And she hates me,” said Emma. “That’s the proof.”
“You’re imagining things,” said Munday.
“When I saw her come in tonight,” said Emma in a low voice, “I thought I recognized her. I was going to go over and introduce myself. But something stopped me. I took a good look at her and she glared at me in a most hateful way. And then I knew.” Emma turned to face Munday. She said, “Alfred, that’s the woman”
“Which woman?” he asked. But he knew.
Emma pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Her eyes were large with fright and she seemed to be on the verge of tears. The anger which had masked her fear had left her, and now she looked extremely tired and rather small and defeated.
Taking Emma by the arm Munday started towards the dining room, and though he was at some distance, nearly two long rooms away, he saw Caroline clearly in the candlelight where the other guests were shadowy; she stared, searching him with her very white face, no stranger now, but so intimate she understood his lon
ging. She had seen his conversation with Emma, and without hearing, she knew every word they had said.
12
“Is this hot or cold?” Anne Motherwell’s spoon was poised over the soup.
“It’s vichysoisse,” said Mrs. Awdry. “I hope you like it.”
“That’s means cold,” said the vicar.
“There’s always a first time,” said Jerry. Saying this he engaged the attention of the table. Everyone watched for his reaction while he took a spoonful. He smiled and swallowed. He said in a surprised voice, “Potatoes,” then, “but very tasty,” and the rest began to eat.
“Did anyone here go over to that meeting in Brid-port to protest the oil-drilling?” asked Janet Strick.
“We were there,” said Peter. “It was very encouraging to see all those concerned people.”
“What exactly are they concerned about?” asked Munday.
“Marauders,” said Anne.
“They’re planning to turn the countryside here into an industrial wasteland,” said Michael. “There’s a scheme afoot to drill for oil in Powerstock.”
“It’s got everyone up in arms,” said Awdry.
“Not everyone,” said Janet. “It looks as if they might go through with it.”
The vicar cleared his throat. He said, “Some years ago—this was before my time—they said they were going to put huge pylons through Marshwood Vale. There were protest meetings and so forth, petitions and letters to the paper. Some people were quite vocal.” He smiled. “And then of course they put the pylons up.”
“That’s always the way,” said Mrs. Awdry.
“I’ve seen them from the back of my house,” said Munday.
“Sorry about that,” said Awdry.
“It’s a rotten shame,” said Janet. “Why should the government designate this as an area of outstanding natural beauty one year and then put up oil rigs the next? I can’t fathom it.”
“They need oil,” said Jerry.
“There’s plenty of oil in the Middle East and America,” said Janet.
“I mean in Britain,” said Jerry.
“I see we’re divided on the oil question,” said Munday. He smiled at Caroline.
“What about the North Sea?” said Anne. “There’s masses there.”
“There’s none here,” said Janet.
“They say there might be,” said the vicar.
“There is,” said Jerry. “It’s here, all right. I’ve seen it running out of the ground over in Hooke— natural seepages.”
“I suppose you don’t care a damn whether they drill or not,” said Janet to Jerry.
Peter spoke to Munday. “It’s quite a problem,” he said. “People coming down here and spoiling the view.”
“People come down here and do all kinds of things,” said Jerry quietly. “I know you folks like the countryside and walks and that. So do I. But these hikers treat my property as if they owned it, break down the fences, leave the gates open for the cows to wander about in the road. I wanted to put up a cow-pen and they refused me planning permission, said I’d spoil the view.” He laughed. “Never heard that one before.” He had not taken another spoonful of his soup; he continued to talk, toying with his spoon, while the others ate. “There’s not a lot of iribney around here. If finding oil means money and jobs then I’m sorry but I’m for it one hundred percent.”
“It’s pollution,” said Anne.
Jerry laughed again. “The farmers over in Powerstock make fifty thousand pounds from a few acres of pastures and you call it pollution!”
“I didn’t chuck a good job in London to come down here and stare at an oil-rig,” said Peter. “No thanks. I’ll go somewhere else if they start that sort of thing down here. I’ve had all I wanted of smoky chimneys and factory noise.”
“I saw the drilling rig, Mr. Awdry,” said Jerry. “She looks like a Christmas tree.”
“You don’t say,” said Awdry.
“With fairy lights,” said Jerry.
“What business are you in?” Munday asked Peter. “I’m in the building trade,” he said.
“What about planning permission?”
“It doesn’t affect me.”
“Peter does up houses,” said Anne. “And very nicely, too. But I'm biased.”
“Clever chap,” said Awdry. “He gets a condemned building at auction for a few hundred pounds, fixes it up with a council grant and sells it for ten thousand.”
“Not quite as simple and profitable as that,” said Peter to Munday. “But you get the idea.”
“Bam of character,” said Michael.
“Ah,” said the vicar, pressing his hands together and looking up.
Mrs. Awdry was carrying the turkey in on a platter. She was followed by a woman in a white bib apron who had a tray of steaming dishes of vegetables. Awdry carved while his wife and the servant collected the soup plates.
Jerry said, “All this talking—I haven’t had time to finish my soup.” He took a spoonful and held it in his mouth.
“Don’t eat it if you don’t like it,” said Mrs. Awdry. “It’s just that I’ve never had it cold before,” he said, surrendering his plate. “I say, that’s a fair-sized bird.”
“A sixteen pounder,” said Awdry, still carving thin slices from the breast. “Now please tell me whether you’d like light meat or dark. Doctor Munday, I know you’ll want dark—all those years in the African bush.” Munday was angered by the laughter Awdry’s arch comment caused, and he said sternly, “Light for me, if you don’t mind.” The ticking of the mantelpiece clock became audible, timing the silence; Munday relished the pause.
Then Anne Motherwell said, “I saw a rat today.”
“Oh, good girl,” said Caroline.
“Was it a very big rat?” asked Janet.
“Average size I suppose,” said Anne. “I’d never seen one before.”
“I hate rats,” said Emma. It was the first thing she had spoken and everyone waited for her to say more. She put her head down and stared at the plate that had been handed to her.
“There is something sexual about rats,” said Caroline. “I think I know why.”
“Do tell us,” said Michael.
“Perhap when you’re a bit older,” said Caroline.
“We had one at the camp,” said Munday. “Right inside the bungalow.”
Emma said, “We never did!” and Munday realized that what he had just said so easily to all those people, he had never told Emma. He was going to reply, but Jerry had already started.
“Used to be a lot of rats around here,” he said, passing a plate heaped with turkey. “Why, I seen more rats in one little place than you see now in five acres. Caught thirty of the buggers one night.”
“I’ve been ratting myself many times,” said Awdry. “Not enough of them for that now,” said Jerry. “After the rabbits went down with myxomatosis, the weasels and foxes had nothing to eat, so they started feeding on the rats.”
“I was six or seven,” said Awdry, “and I was going for a walk with my father. He was a great walker— five miles before breakfast—he gave me my first walking stick. We were on a country lane in South Worcestershire and suddenly he put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Wait!’ I looked up and couldn’t believe my eyes. The road was absolutely black with rats, jostling this way and that. ‘Don’t you move,’ he said. ‘They’re migrating.’ ”
“That thatcher from Filford,” said Jerry. “He was coming up the road one night and a whole mob of rats was crossing the road. Maybe migrating, like Mr. Awdry says. Knocked him down and the bike too!”
“Scrumpy knocked him down more likely,” said Awdry.
“I remember him,” said Mrs. Awdry. “He’s dead now. He thatched for us over at the cottages—up on the ladder with a keg of cider around his neck. Queer old fellow.”
“You must find all of this fascinating,” said Caroline to Munday.
“I do,” said Munday. “Very much so.”
“Doctor Munday is s
tudying us,” said Anne.
“Not exactly,” said Munday. “Though I think someone ought to.”
“It must be very exciting to come back to England after all these years.”
“Exciting?” said Munday.
“Seeing all the changes.”
“The changes I saw weren’t in England,” said Munday, “though it’s true I’m still baffled by the new money, and sick of these television programs perpetually discussing things and ending the show when someone loses his temper. And football results. And God, these color supplements—we never got them in Africa—too heavy to airfreight.”
“We decorated our loo with color supplements,” said Anne.
“They represent everything I loathe about this country,” said Munday. “Everything they stand for, I despise. Isn’t that right, Emma?”
“What’s that?” Emma stared vacantly at Munday.
“Are you all right, my dear?” asked Awdry.
“I’m afraid I’m not feeling terribly well,” said Emma.
“All this talk about rats,” said Mrs. Awdry. “I’m not surprised.”
“Would you mind if I went into the living room and sat down?” said Emma.
“Please do,” said Mr. Awdry. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, no,” said Emma. “Don’t get up.” She rose and went out of the room before anyone could help her.
“Has this happened before?” asked Awdry.
“I think we should call a doctor,” said Janet. “She looks very pale.”
“Hadn’t you better go and see if there’s anything she needs?” said Mrs. Awdry to Munday.
Munday, the only one at the table still eating, gestured with his knife and fork. “Please eat,” he said, chewing. “She’ll be fine.”
