The Empire Trilogy

by J. G. Farrell

  Well, so much for Matthew. He would be dealt with. There remained the Japs. It was intolerable that they should have been allowed to land at Kota Bahru. What did the Army think they were up to? Or was it the RAF’s fault? His mind went back to the tedious disputes of the previous year between Bond and Babington as to who should be responsible for the defence of Malaya. It had been decided, had it not, that it was to be the RAF’s job and that the Army would protect the northern airfields, of which there was one at Kota Bahru, the very place where the Japanese had succeeded in landing! Could it be that the years of endeavour that had gone into the building of Blackett and Webb into a successful enterprise were now to be put at risk by a handful of pig-headed officers and snobbish emissaries of the Colonial Office? ‘Thank heaven that at least with the Prince of Wales and the Repulse in the Straits we have some protection for shipping!’

  ‘Watch, Mohammed!’

  The Bentley had braked suddenly, narrowly missing some dim object that had lumbered across its path, perhaps a rickshaw, it was impossible to tell in the swirling darkness. Walter sighed with irritation and his hand closed over the door handle. For a moment he was tempted to step out and finish his journey on foot despite the rain. He mastered his impatience, however, and sat back again.

  Well, what of the enemy? Walter knew better than to accept the general view in Singapore that the Japanese were either ridiculous or incompetent. Indeed, the skill with which the Army had gradually tightened its grip on Japan’s economy over the past decade was impressive. The policy of girding the economy for war, begun in Manchukuo under the sinister auspices of the South Manchuria Railway Company, had in due course spread back to Japan itself, leaving the zaibatsu (the old capitalist groups like Mitsui, Mitsubishi, Yasuda and Sumitomo which now found their enormous shipping, textile and trading industries beginning to flag) to compensate themselves as best they could with increased profits from their munitions and armaments factories. This diversion of resources from the zaibatsu, which had become even more pronounced since the beginning of the Sino-Japanese war, had provided Blackett and Webb with some relief in their Far Eastern trade as they struggled to recover from the Depression. Nevertheless, Walter had watched apprehensively the rise of the ‘new zaibatsu’, the firms like Mori and Nissan whose fortunes had been derived from the manufacture of armaments and whose future prosperity would depend, perhaps, on the successful use of the weapons they manufactured.

  At last the car was edging its way off the road by the dim glow of its masked headlights. They had evidently arrived at the Mayfair. Walter continued to sit huddled in the back of the car, however, while the syce groped for his oiled-paper umbrella. Sometimes, in his rare moments of depression, Walter would imagine the whole of Malaya spread out before him with its population of Malays, Indians and Chinese all steadily working away. He would see the rubber and oil-palm plantations, the tin mines and rice fields, combining to produce a strong-flowing river of wealth. Above the mines and plantations, each of which sent its tributary to the main current, he would see a little group of Europeans … he saw himself and his family, he saw his colleagues from the Singapore Club, the men from Guthrie’s and Sime Darby and Harrison’s and Crossfield and the Langfields and Bowsers, all of them, the whole pack, he saw the police and the Government and the Military, the Shenton Thomases and Duff Coopers, the Brooke-Pophams and the Bonds and the Babingtons … he saw them all, herded together in a tiny élite group directing the affairs of the country. And then he would ask himself what would happen if, perhaps, some higher force removed this tiny élite group and replaced it by another … say, the South Manchuria Railway Company’s executives … Would the Colony then, as one might expect, wither away promptly, like a plant whose head has been cut off, or would it, on the contrary, continue exactly as it had before, producing that steady, strong river of wealth exactly as if nothing had happened? Experience had taught him that the answer which condensed in his mind in response to this question varied according to his frame of mind. Thus it provided him with a useful barometer to his health and spirits.

  ‘You blighters don’t know how lucky you are, Mohammed,’ growled Walter to the syce as the door beside him opened to the streaming blackness. The syce, who was used to having cryptic fragments of Walter’s inner debates addressed to him, nodded and smiled politely, holding out the umbrella for Walter to step under and ignoring the rain that hammered on his own unprotected shoulders.

  ‘Why don’t they oil that damn thing?’ Walter wondered a few moments later, standing in almost total darkness just inside the verandah door. There were distant sounds of movement and a scampering near the floor in the obscurity. He became aware than an animal of some sort was leaning forward to sniff him cautiously. A few seconds passed during which neither Walter nor this creature cared to make a move. Then an electric light was switched on, revealing a large Dalmatian. It wagged its tail briefly and then whisked away into the jungle of rattan furniture. Presently it returned followed by the Major.

  ‘Ah, Major, I see you have a dog.’

  The Major, who appeared to have just awoken, stared somewhat dubiously at the Dalmatian and said: ‘Actually, it’s not mine. It goes home tomorrow with luck.’ After a moment he added: ‘Watch out, there’s another one behind you,’ causing Walter to give a violent start; it was true: another shadowy animal had crept out of the furniture and with its head tilted on one side was running its nose over his ankle. It uttered a yelp as Walter aimed a kick at it; then promptly waddled away to take shelter behind the Major. As far as Walter could make out in the dim light it was an elderly and decrepit King Charles spaniel: its coat, which had plainly come under attack from some worm, was in some patches bald, in others matted and filthy; its tail hung out at a drunken angle and was liberally coated in some dark and viscous substance resembling axlegrease.

  ‘I found it here when I got in this evening. Someone had left it tethered to the gatepost, with five dollars and a note. Probably someone who had heard of my lectures. Here, have a look.’

  The note, typed with a great number of mistakes and unsigned, declared that the writer had been recalled to Europe at such short notice that he had had no time to settle his affairs. He urged the Major ‘as a lover of dogs’ to be so kind as to have this one destroyed. The money was enclosed to cover mortuary expenses. A harrowing postscript asserted: ‘He was a faithful friend.’ As if this were not enough the dog, perhaps divining that its fate was under discussion, set up a doleful whine and turned its bulging, bleary eyes up at the Major.

  ‘It’s a bit thick, frankly. I have enough on my plate already without having to deal with this poor little brute,’ said the Major gloomily, stooping to tickle the animal behind one cankerous ear.

  ‘Does it have a name?’ asked Walter, retreating as the repulsive creature, reassured, made to approach him.

  ‘The note doesn’t say. Francois has taken to calling it ‘The Human Condition” for some reason. I think he means it as a joke.’

  ‘Well, you’d better have it done away with before it gives us all rabies,’ said Walter. He became brisk again: ‘I just came to enquire after young Webb. How is he?’

  The two men set off down the corridor towards Matthew’s room, the Major explaining that since the fever still had not abated they were continuing to give him large quantities of liquid. Dr Brownley was optimistic that the patient would soon be over the worst. The Dalmatian loped cheerfully after them, followed, groaning and gasping, at some distance by The Human Condition.

  After a brief look at Matthew, who appeared to be still too busy thrashing and sweating beneath his mosquito net to recognize him, Walter took the Major by the arm for, as it happened, visiting the sick had only been part of his purpose in coming to the Mayfair. He also wanted to discuss Blackett and Webb’s jubilee parade with the Major and, if possible, to conscript him to play a more active part in it. ‘You’ll be lending us a hand, won’t you, Major?’ he asked with a winning smile, and he went on to emphasize th
e great importance which the Governor himself was placing on this event, as he happened to know for a fact, just having come this moment from Government House. To cut a long story short Sir Shenton was absolutely relying on this parade to keep up the morale of the Straits Settlements at this dire turning-point in their history … ‘And he expects every one of us, Major, to put his shoulder to the wheel,’ he was obliged to add, seeing that the Major was still showing signs of reluctance. Although work on the floats was well in hand there was still a great deal to be done in the way of organization. As soon as Matthew Webb had come to his senses again, every pressure must be exerted on him in order to persuade him to take the place that his father would have occupied had he lived: that is to say, he would have to sit on the throne as the symbol of Continuity and, no less essential, deliver a keynote speech on Prosperity as it affected workers of all races in the Colony.

  Since the Major still hesitated and hung back, murmuring that he had a great deal to do in organizing his AFS unit and carrying the burden of his Committee for Civil Defence, Walter launched into an enthusiastic description of the way in which their plans for a parade had evolved into something more impressive: Blackett and Webb’s jubilee parade would not only be a patriotic cavalcade of a magnificence rarely seen, it would also be a living diagram, as it were, of the Colony’s economy in miniature, since the company was involved at least to some extent in every one of Malaya’s principle trading and productive activities (though only indirectly in tin-mining and no longer to a great extent in the entrepôt business) … ‘With the exception of palm-oil,’ he muttered as an afterthought, looking uneasy. The Major was surprised to notice the look of uncertainty which passed fleetingly over Walter’s commanding features. Walter coughed in a harassed sort of way and scratched the back of his head … but the next moment he was off again, brimming with confidence as he explained his ‘grand design’ to the Major.

  The old idea, as the Major might remember, had been to have a series of floats depicting Blackett and Webb’s commercial ventures, plus a few of the dragons that are de rigueur in any Chinese festival, a brass band or two and the usual fireworks. But, one of his brighter young executives had suggested, since the idea of the parade was partly to instruct, should they not broaden their scope in order to include some of the hazards which these commercial ventures had had to overcome, and still were having to overcome? A brilliant notion! In this way the idea of a counter-parade to accompany the parade had been born. And so what was now projected was to have Chinese acrobats, schoolboys, and volunteers of all races dress up in appropriate costumes as devils and imps accompanying the main procession, tumbling and turning cartwheels and playing pranks on the crowd, squirting water over them and so forth. Did the Major not think that was an idea of genius? These imps and devils would carry pitchforks to prod maliciously at the characters of Continuity and Prosperity, throwing banana skins in front of them and so on. And, of course, they would wear placards identifying them as the particular enemies of Continuity and Prosperity. Thus there would be imps and devils representing: ‘Labour Unrest’, ‘Rice Hoarding’, ‘Japanese Aggression’, ‘Wage Demands’ (what a fearful lot of banana skins this devil would scatter in front of Blackett and Webb’s proud floats!), ‘Foolish Talk’, ‘International Communism’, ‘Fraudulent Accountancy’ (a great trick of the Chinese businessman who habitually keeps two sets of books), ‘Racial Enmity’, ‘Corruption and Squeeze’, ‘Slander Against Government and British Empire’, ‘Slander Against Private Enterprise’, ‘Irresponsible Strikes’ and many, many more: indeed, there were so many possibilities that they must be careful not to bury the floats completely … Well, what did the Major think? Would he enter into the spirit of the thing and perhaps wear one of the devils’ costumes not yet allocated? Would he mind personifying ‘Inflation’, for example, which would mean dressing up in a fiery red costume with horns and a tail and lashing about with a tennis ball tied to a stick?

  ‘Well, Walter, I’m not sure that I …’

  ‘The Governor and Lady Thomas will be personally grateful to you, I happen to know,’ said Walter, pressing his advantage as he saw the Major begin to weaken. ‘He sets particular store by having a mixture of races. What we must have above all is Europeans! That is crucial to the whole exercise. We’ve even considered having an additional slogan: “All in it together!”’

  ‘Well, I suppose, in that case …’

  ‘Good man! I knew I could depend on you … Well, Major, I think it should be a success but sometimes I do have the feeling that there’s something missing, that we still need a single float representing Singapore herself. We’ve thought of all the usual things, the Lion City and so on, but it’s weak, it’s been done before … We need to show Singapore in her relationship with the other trading centres of the Far East, holding them in a friendly grip. It’s deuced hard to think of anything suitable, I can tell you! All we’ve managed to think of so far is to have Singapore at the centre of a float as a sort of beneficial octopus with its tentacles in a friendly way encircling the necks of Shanghai, Hong Kong, Bombay, Colombo, Rangoon, Saigon and Batavia. Of course, the snag is that the octopus does not have a very good reputation whereas …’ Walter fell silent.

  They were standing in the corridor. From a few feet away they could hear the springs of Matthew’s bed as he thrashed and muttered and groaned in his fever. From the dim depths of the floor The Human Condition peered up at Walter in perplexity with its bulging eyes. The Major cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me mentioning this, Walter, but I noticed a moment ago that you had a spot of something yellow on your chin … a spot of, well, egg, I suppose.’

  ‘What?’ cried Walter, clapping a hand to his chin in horror.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said the Major hurriedly, taken aback by the effect of his words. ‘Just a spot of something … You can hardly see it.’ Walter spat on a handkerchief and began to rub his chin violently. Watching him at work the Major could not help thinking: ‘Walter is getting rather odd in some ways.’

  32

  Poor Matthew! What a terrible fever he had to endure! Every two or three hours he would be roused from his churning dreams and would find himself surrounded by a circle of Oriental faces, for Cheong had summoned assistance from his relatives. Then he would become aware of many hands hoisting him into the air while other hands dragged away the sodden sheets and replaced them with dry: these dry sheets would be wringing wet too, though, within a few moments. At intervals he would find a glass of cold liquid held to his lips: then he would gulp for his life, while faces flared up before his eyes. ‘Hello you!’ said Joan brightly, puffing away at a long cigarette holder, to be replaced in a moment by Charlie informing him that there was a huge demand for cheap coolie labour during the rice-milling season from January to May, or by an unknown doctor, an Englishman wearing a linen jacket and a striped tie. This man, he found, was talking to him cheerfully and evidently had been doing so for some time, encouraging him to swallow some white pills which lay in his yellowish, horny palm. As Matthew took them the doctor opened his mouth and gulped sympathetically, as if he too had some pills to swallow; then, satisfied, he beckoned Cheong forward with a pitcher of iced lemonade. Matthew gulped down glass after glass, before sinking back into his dreams … only to find a moment later that the Major’s worried countenance was looming over him. He could tell by the Major’s expression that something had gone dreadfully wrong. What was it he was trying to say to Dupigny on the other side of the bed? The Prince of Wales had called but had been repulsed! Matthew could just reach consciousness with his fingertips. If he could only drag himself up a little further! ‘I had no idea he was even in Singapore,’ he just managed to say before losing his grip and tumbling back head over heels into his churning dreams again.

  Hours passed. Some time later, in a moment of lucidity which occurred while he was trying to thrash his way out of a net that German spies were throwing over him to prevent him rejoining the League ‘somewhere in the Atlant
ic’, Matthew found himself hanging upside down out of bed, neatly trussed up in a cocoon of mosquito netting which he had somehow dragged off its frame. From this odd position he had an excellent view of a number of neatly swept floorboards in diminishing perspective. Standing on these floorboards under the bed was what he at first took to be a chamber-pot … a moment later he realized that it was simply a basin which had been put there to collect his own sweat which was soaking through the mattress and steadily dripping into it. The basin was already brimming.

  A faint clicking sound approached him across the floorboards and suddenly he found that his own eyeballs were a mere inch or two from another pair of eyeballs; these ones, bulging and bleary, were set in the hairy face of a Chinese demon, of a kind he had hitherto only seen sculpted in stone outside temples. Matthew was on the point of howling for Cheong to come and drive off this horrid little creature (it was not exactly sweet-smelling, either) but at this very instant the German spies, one of whom bore a stern resemblance to the portrait of his father in Walter’s drawing-room, abruptly caught up with him and he was off again like a hare, twisting now this way, now that. His sweat continued its steady drip, drip, drip through the mattress.