Paving the New Road

by Sulari Gentill

  Rowland smiled. “It is a little risqué for Wil.”

  “Aren’t you boys ready yet?” Edna pushed him away to help Clyde with his cuff links. “I’m famished. What time are we booked for dinner?”

  “Not till eight, I’m afraid,” Rowland said apologetically. “We could have a drink at the bar in the meantime…I’m sure they’ll have some sort of hors d’oeuvres to keep you from expiring.”

  The Long Bar at Raffles was as elegantly extravagant as the rest of the hotel. Decorated in the style of a Malayan plantation, it had an air of intrepid refinement. It was all but empty when they arrived—a few couples enjoying drinks before dinner and two gentlemen sitting at the bar. The first was quite elderly, distinguished and distinctly British, the second, younger and handsome, his smile very wide. He raised his glass as they walked in and signalled the barman. Both men stood, obviously expecting the party of Australians to join them.

  Clyde looked enquiringly at Rowland. “Friends of yours?”

  Rowland shook his head. “Never laid eyes on them before.”

  The younger gentleman spoke to Edna first, betraying an American origin to his accent. “You look simply gorgeous, my dear. I just couldn’t resist that gown…I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you are equal to it.”

  Edna extended her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced…”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “Forgive me, darling. Gerald Haxton at your service.” He put his arm around the other man and drew him forward. “And this excellent gentleman is William Somerset Maugham. You must be Miss Millicent Greenway, an exquisite, blushing pearl from the Antipodes.”

  Edna was flustered. She was not yet accustomed to her new name, and she was very familiar with the one he introduced.

  “Somerset Maugham? The playwright?”

  Maugham bowed. He spoke quietly, stammering. “The same.”

  Edna glanced at Rowland. Why had William Somerset Maugham and his American friend chosen her gown?

  “Perhaps we should all have a drink,” Haxton suggested.

  “At least one,” Milton agreed.

  On cue the barman placed a tray of cocktails before them.

  “Singapore Slings,” Haxton announced, handing a glass to Edna. “Gin, cherry heering, Benedictine, and fresh pineapple juice—quite possibly this country’s greatest contribution to civilisation.”

  “Gentlemen…” Rowland began.

  “Mr. Negus, can’t tell you how pleased we are to make your acquaintance.” Haxton, then Maugham, shook his hand. “How is your dear brother?”

  “Wilfred?” Rowland said uncertainly.

  “Indeed. He wired us that you’d be coming. Asked us to look out for you…see that you had everything you needed.”

  Still a little bewildered, Rowland introduced Milton and Clyde as Albert Greenway and Joseph Ryan, though it became clear that the introductions were unnecessary. Haxton and Maugham clearly knew of both their pseudonyms and actual names.

  “How is it that you gentlemen are acquainted with my brother?” Rowland asked finally.

  “Willy met him during the Great War. Fine officer, by all accounts. They’ve kept in touch on and off since…and collaborated occasionally.”

  “Wilfred writes plays?” Rowland felt the conversation taking a somewhat surreal turn.

  “Good Lord, no!” Maugham spat out despite his stammer.

  Haxton surveyed the room before he went on. “Perhaps you are familiar with a collection of stories Willy wrote some years ago—Ashenden?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Rowland replied awkwardly.

  “The British Agent,” Milton said, as he made quick work of his gin cocktail. He raised one brow and spoke with theatrical gravity. “‘There’s just one thing I think you ought to know before you take on this job. And don’t forget it. If you do well, you’ll get no thanks and if you get into trouble, you’ll get no help. Does that suit you?’”

  “By George, you know it!” Haxton exclaimed, beaming at the poet.

  “A collection of stories about a well-groomed spy, I believe.”

  “Yes, exactly.” Haxton nodded emphatically. He slurped his sling, wiped the froth from his upper lip and sighed in satisfaction before continuing. “Willy has quite the reputation for using personal experience in his work, if you get my meaning. Shall we indulge in another round?”

  Rowland had not yet tried his own drink, but another tray of gin-slings appeared almost immediately.

  Rowland turned to Maugham, who had, he noticed, said very little. “Are you saying you were a spy, Mr. Maugham, or that Wilfred was a spy?”

  Haxton moved in. He threw his arm around Rowland’s shoulders, lowering his voice. “Willy doesn’t say much,” he said. “The darned stammer, you know.”

  Maugham stood watching them, quietly sipping his drink.

  Haxton overheard Edna talking to the barman about food, and became immediately distracted, ordering mooncakes and other eastern delicacies with a gin-sling in each hand.

  Rowland shook his head, more than a little bemused by the whole exchange.

  A tap on the shoulder caught his attention, and William Somerset Maugham motioned him away from the bar. “Shall we walk?” he said carefully.

  Glancing just momentarily at his friends, who were now engrossed in tasting canapés and sweetmeats under Haxton’s guidance, Rowland accompanied the renowned playwright onto the wide verandah. Maugham took a slim gold case from his breast pocket and offered Rowland a cigarette. He lit one himself when Rowland declined.

  “I had expected to see Wilfred here, but then he wired me a few days ago that you would be coming instead. I understand that you intend to conduct some sort of intelligence operation in Germany. He’s concerned that you may be out of your depth.” Maugham spoke slowly but smoothly. The stammer was now barely noticeable. “Your brother hoped that I might talk some sense into you, or at least give you some advice.”

  Rowland smiled. He was intrigued by Maugham and his sudden wish—and ability— to converse.

  It had started to rain. On the verandah the air smelled sweet and the breeze breathed cool relief.

  Maugham drew on his cigarette. “You are wondering about my stammer, I expect. It has not for some time been as debilitating as commonly believed.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I have always found the ability to observe quietly very useful,” Maugham reflected. “An impediment such as mine is an interesting thing…often mistaken for an impediment of the mind rather than the voice. I find it leads men to be less inhibited and circumspect in my presence. Perhaps they believe I cannot understand, or that if I could, I would not in any case be able to repeat it.”

  Rowland nodded. “I can see how that would be useful for an intelligence agent.”

  Maugham smiled slightly. “No less useful for a writer, my boy. We are first and foremost observers of the world. I believe you are something of an artist?”

  Rowland was surprised that Maugham would be aware of such a thing. Wilfred still treated his brother’s determination to paint like some unfortunate habit that would hopefully be outgrown. “Something of one.”

  “Well, then, you know what I mean. You will learn a lot more if you wait for something to be revealed rather than if you actively try to uncover it. It’s also a much safer way to proceed.”

  Rowland leaned on the balustrade, watching as lightning lit the sky and flashed the hotel’s wet courtyard into colourless clarity. “Are you working with the Old Guard, Mr. Maugham?”

  “No. But there are certain courtesies extended between gentlemen of the Empire.”

  “Gentlemen?”

  Maugham smiled, exhaling perfect rings of smoke. “In 1917, I was sent to Russia to prevent the Bolshevik Revolution…though regrettably my efforts didn’t meet with success. Regardless, this sort of wor
k is best done by gentlemen.”

  “Because spying ought to be done politely?” Rowland ventured, amused.

  “Because it ought to be done dispassionately…and there is nothing as devoid of passion as the English gentleman.”

  “I’m Australian,” Rowland replied.

  “Yes…it’s unfortunate.” Maugham sighed heavily. “I knew Peter Bothwell during the Great War.”

  “I see. Was he working in intelligence?”

  “I’m afraid that sort of information is classified, Mr. Negus.” He straightened, his lower lip jutting just beyond his moustache. “Although Gerry Haxton is no longer welcome in Britain, I am still an Englishman and His Majesty’s servant.”

  Rowland sharpened to the aside. “Why is Haxton not welcome in England?”

  “He was deported…for, I believe, an act that was described as ‘not buggery’…Apparently he was undesirable, though there are many men who would disagree—which I suppose is what began his trouble in the first place.”

  “Oh.” Rowland swigged his gin-sling in the awkward silence, wishing to God he had not asked.

  Maugham smiled. “Gerry can be quite forward and, occasionally, indiscriminate with his attentions. He seems to have taken quite a shine to Miss Greenway, but you really don’t need to worry. His interest could not be more platonic.”

  “Right…thank you. But Miss Greenway is not…she can do as she pleases.”

  “I see. It seems a pity.”

  “Quite.”

  When Rowland and Maugham returned to the Long Bar, the cocktails had done their work: Gerald Haxton was wearing Edna’s boa around his neck and Milton’s boutonniere behind his ear while belting out a French love song. Edna sat at the bar, laughing. Milton, who was not used to being upstaged in such a manner, watched uneasily.

  “Rowly!” Clyde was clearly glad to see their return.

  “Robbie,” Maugham corrected. “You will have to get used to your aliases if you hope to carry this off.”

  “Yes…Robbie.” Clyde jerked his head towards Haxton. “It might be time to…”

  “Gerry—I believe it’s high time we chuffed off to dinner, don’t you think?” Maugham spoke loudly over the din, with the stammer making a reappearance.

  Gerald Haxton stopped singing, grinning affably. “Willy! Where did you and Mr. Negus get to? I was beginning to get rather jealous.”

  “Dinner,” Rowland said tensely. “We should go to dinner. Would you gentlemen care to join us?”

  “Au contraire,” Haxton insisted brightly. “You shall all join us! Come along.” He offered his arm to Edna and proceeded to lead them from the bar. “Have you enjoyed curry before, my dear? Raffles is famous for its tiffin curry. Traditionally eaten at luncheon, of course, but I’ll have a word. You really must try it…heats the blood…”

  Chapter Six

  GOSSIP

  THERE is an interesting extract from a letter from Mr. Cuthbert Wells, in Singapore, to his daughter in Adelaide, relating to the wedding of the popular Adelaide girl, Miss Alison Thomas, now Mrs. Charles C. T. Sharp. Mr. Wells was in a quandary about the frocking, but he tackled the subject nobly. “I felt greatly honoured when Mrs. Thomas asked me if I would give Alison away at the wedding. I was up very early and down at the hotel at 7.15. Mrs. Thomas, Sharp, and a Mrs. Millar went off first to the cathedral at 7.30 a.m., and Alison and I followed in my car, the former looking very charming in silk georgette dress of a pinky dove grey color with a close-fitting little straw hat (cloche?) with a feather. Only the archdeacon, Graham White, was there beside ourselves, and the ceremony was soon smoothly over. We all—six of us—had a cheerful breakfast at Raffles Hotel, and I was at the office at 9 a.m., while the bridal couple caught the Plancius at 10 a.m. en route to Brastagi, Sumatra, for the honeymoon.

  —The Mail, 1932

  Rowland lay on the chaise, laughing. He had abandoned his dinner jacket, and his tie hung loosely around his neck. Edna sat on the rolled arm of the lounge trying to poke the feathers back into her boa. Clyde and Milton had also relinquished their jackets. The poet stood in the middle of the room singing French-sounding nonsense in a quite remarkably accurate impersonation of Haxton. Clyde was drinking like a man trying hard to forget.

  Dinner had been a mildly alarming affair. Raffles, it seemed, was accustomed to Haxton. The waiters and maître d’ barely reacted to the Americans’ extraordinary antics. While the occasional diner tskked disapprovingly, most seemed to consider it part of Raffles’ exotic charm, some form of spontaneous floor show.

  Maugham had, in the presence of his companion, retreated into an aloof but dignified reserve. Haxton had compensated by becoming increasingly loud and flamboyant. Champagne had accompanied dinner, and by the end of the evening the American did not confine his flirting to Edna. Rowland and Milton were more amused than anything else, but Clyde reacted with noticeable panic and so became the focus of Haxton’s attentions.

  “He was fun, though, wasn’t he?” Edna said smiling.

  “No.” Clyde was blunt.

  “Oh, Clyde.” Edna reached over and patted his knee. “You mustn’t take him seriously. Gerry’s quite sweet beneath all that nonsense. He has lovely taste in gowns.”

  “Just let the poor chap drink, Ed.” Rowland put his hands behind his head. “Clyde’s had rather a shock.”

  “Do Mr. Maugham and Gerry actually live here?” Edna asked brightly.

  “Some of the time, I believe,” Rowland replied. “Maugham has a villa in France. Apparently Haxton’s been deported from Britain for some sort of misbehaviour, but of course the French are more understanding…”

  Edna shoved him playfully. Her mother had been French. “Mama always said the English were frightful hypocrites.”

  “Can we please talk about something else?” Clyde begged tersely.

  “Yes,” Milton agreed, taking an armchair opposite the chaise and looking directly at Rowland. “Why did Maugham whisk you away, for instance?”

  Rowland’s brow rose. “He wanted to tell me about Bothwell, I suppose.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. Maugham hinted that Bothwell was in some form of intelligence work during the war.”

  “Hinted?”

  “Well, he didn’t say explicitly, but I’m quite sure that’s what he meant. I suppose if Bothwell was working for the British Secret Service, it might be treason—or some such thing—to just come out and tell me.”

  “But Maugham wrote a book.”

  “Yes…perhaps I should read it.”

  Milton sat back, playing with a peacock feather that had come loose from Edna’s boa and ended up in his collar. “It makes sense, though…Perhaps that’s why the Old Guard sent Bothwell on this caper, in the first place. He’d spied before.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What about Wilfred?” Edna asked, sliding down to share the chaise with Rowland. “Do you think he was an agent too?”

  Rowland laughed. The idea was ridiculous.

  “He was going to do this if you didn’t,” Milton reminded him.

  Rowland sat up. He pushed the hair back from his face. “You’re right, he was.”

  “And he met Maugham during the war. Where exactly was Wilfred posted?”

  Rowland shrugged. “France…Wil’s never spoken to me about the war. I wouldn’t have a clue what he actually did over there.”

  Edna giggled. “Can you imagine what Wilfred would make of Gerald Haxton?”

  Milton grunted. “He’d barely have noticed—the upper classes are full of chaps like Haxton.”

  Rowland smiled. “I’ve known a few,” he admitted.

  The oppressive humidity of the previous evening had dissipated in the deluge overnight, and so the morning was fresh, the air still warm but no longer cloying. With the first light of day, Edna had attemp
ted to drag them all out of bed “to take in the sights.” Only Rowland could be persuaded to leave the superlative comfort of his bed, though he did so reluctantly. Fortunately, they were due back at the airport that morning and so Edna’s sightseeing would be necessarily limited to a walk on the beach before breakfast.

  Although it was early, the paved boulevards of the European sector of the island were busy. Locals pushed carts, laden with produce or trinkets, along Beach Road. Bare-chested men in sarongs swept steps and paths while turbaned traders set up for the day’s business. Edna marvelled at the strength and endurance of the rickshaw pullers, who dragged white-suited businessmen at a run, negotiating a road shared with motor cars and bullock drays.

  “It’s a shame we can’t stay longer, Rowly,” Edna said, as she paused to photograph the Colonial splendour of the buildings which lined the thoroughfare.

  Rowland smiled. “We can come back, Ed.” He held out his hand for hers. “Come on, we’d better return to Raffles.”

  “Robbie!”

  Rowland turned towards the voice.

  Maugham and Haxton emerged from the teahouse behind them, dressed almost identically in pale suits and broad-brimmed straw hats. Rowland was mildly surprised to see Haxton. He had expected that the American would be somewhat unwell after his consumption the evening before.

  Haxton kissed Edna’s hand and slapped Rowland heartily on the back. “Well, this is a lucky chance. I had expected I’d have to chase you to the airport.”

  “Chase me? Why?”

  “Willy wanted me to make sure you had this.” He handed Rowland an envelope.

  Edna glanced at Rowland and coaxed Haxton away. “Gerry, you must let me take a picture of you…over here…in front of this palm tree.”

  “What is this, Mr. Maugham?” Rowland asked, studying the envelope as Haxton moved out of earshot under Edna’s direction.

  “A letter of introduction to an old acquaintance.” Again the stammer was barely noticeable.