The Empire Trilogy

by J. G. Farrell

  ‘Soaked to the skin! That’s what comes of trusting your daughter, Major. Well, Matthew, you look a hundred per cent better … You’ve lost a bit of weight, perhaps, but there’s no harm in that for a man of your size …’ And on he went, his voice reverberating confidently above the roar of rain drumming on the roof.

  Matthew and the Major stared at him, hypnotized. The Major, who had become accustomed to seeing Walter despondent or full of bitter nostalgia for the old days, was delighted to see the change that had come over him. Matthew lay back against his pillows looking somewhat bewildered but pleased that everyone should be in such a good mood despite the sinking of the Prince of Wales and the Repulse.

  ‘Now, my boy,’ said Walter affably, ‘these are momentous days we’re living through and it’s time we had a serious discussion about what’s to become of you. No, now wait a jiffy, you’ll have your chance to say your piece in a moment. What I want to say is this … Now that your poor father is no longer with us I feel I have a special responsibility not just to my own family but to you as well … Well, m’lad, I’ve had my eye on you and if you don’t mind me saying so it’s become pretty clear to me that you’ve taken a bit of a shine to my daughter Joan here and, frankly, young man, I can’t say I blame you because she’s a good young woman even if she does get her old Papa soaked to the skin from time to time, ha! ha! … and, between you and me, half the young fellows in Singapore are after her …’

  ‘But, Walter! Well, I mean, good heavens … !’ cried Matthew and began to struggle agitatedly with his sheet and the ‘Dutch wife’ and a fold of the mosquito net which had come adrift, as if he meant to spring out of bed and start pacing up and down. The Major, indeed, jumped up to restrain him, very concerned by the stare of excitement in which the patient had been thrown by Walter’s curious preamble about his daughter. But the Major’s intervention was not needed for Matthew had somehow got himself so entangled in his sheet that in his weakened state he could scarcely move and presently subsided again.

  Walter, meanwhile, ignoring this commotion, held up his hand and, nodding towards his daughter, went on steadily: ‘And she, if I’m not talking out of turn, has a bit of a soft spot for you. Isn’t that right, m’dear? Well, in these circumstances I think that there’s only one course for sensible people to take … And I think we all know what that is! There now, I’ve said my party piece.’ Walter sat back, thoroughly satisfied with the way the interview was going.

  ‘But Mr Blackett … That’s to say, Walter …’ exclaimed Matthew, still bound to the bed by the folds of his sheet but rolling his eyeballs excitedly. ‘What can I say? I mean, I’m certainly very fond of Joan, that’s true, but never for a minute … I mean, such an idea has never even … but perhaps I’ve got the wrong end of the stick … Well, I simply don’t know what to say.’ He gazed at his companions, quite overwhelmed by this unexpected development. Once again it seemed to him that reality had taken a dream-like turn, for while Walter had been making his extraordinary speech Cheong had stolen up behind him with a towel and had set to work, his face perfectly impassive, briskly rubbing down Walter’s head and patting his pink, commanding cheeks, so that an occasional word here and there in Walter’s discourse had been muffled by a thickness of towel, causing Matthew to be not altogether sure that Walter was saying what he appeared to be saying. When Cheong had finished with Walter he started to rub no less briskly at Joan’s damp ringlets, but after a moment she motioned him away.

  Although Joan had not assented very vigorously when her father had declared that she had a ‘soft spot’ for Matthew (instead she had gazed calmly at the floor where another puddle was beginning to form between her feet) neither had she uttered any word that might be interpreted as a disclaimer. Now, when she spoke, it was merely to ask, looking round: ‘Has the “boy” gone? If so, I’m going to take off this wet dress if you don’t mind. You don’t mind, do you, Papa?’

  ‘I don’t mind in the least, m’dear, but you’d better ask these gentlemen … though I’m sure they’re men o’ the world enough not to mind seeing a fat little piglet like you in your underwear … You don’t mind, do you, Major?’

  ‘Oh, me? Not at all, not at all,’ mumbled the Major, laughing and clearing his throat; and he puffed with embarrassment at his pipe, stopping and unstopping its bowl with two fingers to make it draw. He might have been thinking, as he cast a hasty, sidelong glance at Joan’s agreeable figure, that even with advancing years a man might still be troubled by thoughts of … well, never mind … who knows what he was thinking as he puffed at his pipe, for presently he had disappeared into a blue haze of tobacco smoke?

  As for the patient, despite his weakened condition and his confused state of mind, his eyes wandered appreciatively over Joan’s gleaming skin as she stepped out of her sodden dress and he seemed to be thinking: ‘Well, a body’s a body, for all that,’ or something of the sort.

  ‘You don’t mind, Papa,’ asked Joan, smiling mischievously, ‘if I climb into bed beside Matthew until the rain stops? I’ll be much more comfortable. We can have the “Dutch wife” between us.’

  ‘Oh, the little rascal,’ chuckled Walter. ‘Oh, the little hussy! What d’you think of that, Major? And before her own father’s very eyes! And what, I should like to know, young lady, would your mother say if she could see you now?’ And while Joan hung her dress on a coat-hanger to dry before climbing into bed Walter beamed at Matthew more expansively than ever. ‘Well, there you are, my boy,’ he seemed to be saying. ‘There are the goods. You won’t find better. You can see for yourself. It’s a good offer. Take it or leave it.’

  Presently, when the rain had stopped, Walter and Joan made their way back through the compound beside pools of rainwater which were now reflecting the stars. Father and daughter did not speak as they made their way through the drenched garden but they did not have to: they understood each other perfectly. Abdul, the old major-domo, was waiting for them, concerned that they should have got such a soaking.

  ‘What news, Master?’

  ‘Good news, Abdul!’ replied Walter in the conventional manner, but as he went upstairs to change his clothes he thought: ‘Yes, good news!’

  33

  ‘Well, I suppose it might be true,’ the Major was saying doubtfully. ‘One never knows. I was in Harbin in 1937 and there was still a lot of White Russians there at the time. A lot of the poor devils were starving, too.’

  The Major and Matthew were sitting in the office which had once been old Mr Webb’s. Matthew, drained of all energy, had at last managed to leave his bed and drag himself as far as his father’s desk where he sat drowsing over an untidy pile of reports, accounts and miscellaneous papers concerning the rubber industry. The Major, filled with concern by the young man’s sombre and listless frame of mind, attempted from time to time to engage him in cheerful conversation. But these days what was there to be cheerful about? Only the subject of Vera Chiang had aroused a tiny spark of interest in the patient: Matthew had remembered a dream conversation between Vera and Joan in which Vera had claimed that her mother was a Russian princess and her father a Chinese tea-merchant … or something of the sort. What did the Major think of it? The Major, it turned out, had heard the same story from Vera with one or two added details and had politely suspended disbelief. After all, far-fetched though it sounded, one never knew. Stranger things had happened in that part of the world in the last few years.

  ‘By the way, where is she? I thought she was supposed to have a room here still.’

  ‘One of Blackett and Webb’s vans came to pick up her belongings the other day. Not that they needed a van, mind you. There was only a small bag and a parcel or two. I gather Walter wanted her moved out for some reason, he didn’t say why. But she’s a friendly sort of girl and I expect she’ll look in to say hello one of these days.’ The Major stood up. ‘I must go and do some work. Monty said he’d be dropping in to see you presently.’

  Matthew had begun to drowse over his papers once m
ore when Monty suddenly appeared.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said. Monty was looking preoccupied for some reason.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, I hear you and Joan are thinking of teaming up.’

  ‘Oh, it hasn’t quite come to that, has it? I mean, I know your father did say something the other night about it being a good idea, or something on those lines. But I don’t think anything, well, definite was decided, you know … At least that was my impression. After all …’

  But Monty merely shrugged; he did not seem particularly interested in the matter. He said vaguely: ‘I expect I got hold of the wrong end of the stick … But from what they’ve been saying I thought they were planning a wedding … You know, bridesmaids and all that rubbish.’ Monty collapsed into a chair and put his feet up on Matthew’s desk, upsetting a tumbler full of pencils as he did so but making no effort to gather them up again. ‘I suppose this means you aren’t going to want to come in with me and the other two chaps in sharing this Chinese filly,’ he said morosely, ‘that, is, if you and Joan are teaming up. It’s going to make it damned expensive for the rest of us,’ he added accusingly.

  ‘But Monty …’

  ‘The other two are regular fellows. Great sports. And it’s not as if there were enough white women to go round (if there were I’d tell you). I don’t suppose you know that there’s only one to every fifty white blokes.’

  ‘I told you ages ago, Monty, that I wasn’t interested. It’s not my cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh, all right, all right. Don’t go on about it. It doesn’t matter to me whether you come in or not, though you’ll be missing a splendid opportunity. That’s your look-out, though.’ Monty sighed heavily. ‘I really came over to explain about the replanting of rubber trees on your Johore estate. The Old Man said I ought to keep you in the picture though you’re probably not interested. The answer is simply that it’s more profitable to replant now than to go on tapping.’

  ‘But how can it be? I thought there was someone clamouring for every scrap of rubber we produce.’

  ‘It’s to do with the excess profits tax … You don’t want me to go into it, do you?’

  But Matthew evidently did want him to, and so, with a much put-upon air, Monty removed his feet from the table and began to explain. When the war had broken out in 1939 a sixty per cent excess profits tax had been slapped on all sterling companies either at home or abroad. Blackett’s hadn’t minded too much at first. Propitious years, as far as they were concerned, had been chosen for the calculation of ‘standard profits’. ‘We found we could still keep our hands on a satisfactory chunk of the profits. All well and good. But then I’ll be damned if they don’t increase the excess profits tax to one hundred per cent! Can you beat it?’ Monty, his eyes blue and bulging like his father’s, stared at Matthew in disgust.

  At the same time the price of rubber had risen and more of it could be released under the Restriction Scheme. ‘The next thing we find is that we can make the bloody “standard profits” (all we’re allowed, the British Government confiscating the rest) by producing a smaller amount of rubber than we’re actually allowed to release to the market! Can you beat it? What’s the point in producing more when we don’t make any profit by doing so?’

  Monty’s gaze had momentarily become troubled for, although on the whole he believed he did understand his father’s commercial strategy (and admired it, too, his father was hot stuff when it came to spotting opportunities), there was one of Walter’s initiatives for which a sound commercial reason had so far eluded him: the signing of contracts with the Americans, for huge quantities of rubber for which no shipping could be found. The accumulation for this rubber on the quays directly contradicted, as far as Monty could see, the other policy of not producing rubber from which no profit could be made. The excess profits tax would apply just as much to the American contracts. It was a mystery which Monty could not explain … though there must be an explanation. Monty had even, for want of anything better, come close once or twice to suspecting his father of patriotism. But no, it surely could not be that. He had, of course, asked Walter for an explanation, but he had shown signs of extreme exasperation and had declined to reply. However, the truth was at last beginning to dawn on Monty in the past few days following the Japanese attack. It was a terrible truth, if Monty had guessed correctly, but was there any other explanation? Walter, in his omniscience, had foreseen the Japanese attack. More than that, he had foreseen the capture of Malaya or destruction of Singapore. He was actually wagering on the capture or destruction of all that rubber and planning to demand compensation from the Government in some more healthy part of the world! True, this did seem, even to Monty, an extravagant wager, but what other reason could there be? His father never did anything in business without a sound reason.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, returning his attention to Matthew, ‘we decided that the only sensible thing to do was to replant … Why? Because replanting expenses are allowable against tax.’

  ‘Even if it means replanting perfectly healthy and productive trees!’ exclaimed Matthew.

  ‘Certainly! Because we’re replanting them with these newly developed clones I was telling you about. When they’re mature in a few years time they’ll produce almost twice as much per tree.’

  ‘But what about the War Effort? Everyone’s crying out for rubber now not in a few years’ time. And we’re cutting down the trees that produce the stuff and-planting seedlings in their place. And we aren’t even slaughter-tapping, as far as I can make out! It’s madness.’ Casting off his apathy Matthew had sprung to his feet and now gripped Monty’s arm with one hand and the lapels of his jacket with the other. Monty uttered a hoarse cry of alarm and flinched away under this onslaught, convinced that he was about to be assaulted by Matthew whose reason clearly swung on very fragile hinges. Monty was not surprised: he had suspected as much for some time. Next time he would see to it that his father dealt with this madman.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t my idea,’ he murmured soothingly. ‘Don’t blame me. You’ll have to take it up with Father, though I must say …’ he added more confidently as Matthew released him and began to pace up and down the room, waving one fist certainly, but otherwise not looking so dangerous, ‘…that I really don’t think you should take this pious attitude the whole time. People don’t go in for that sort of thing out here. As a matter of fact, they think it’s deuced odd, if you want to know. But of course, you must suit yourself,’ he went on hurriedly, as Matthew turned towards him once more.

  ‘But it’s not that, Monty … it’s a matter of principle.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course it is,’ agreed Monty. ‘Anyway, I must be on my way now. I’ve a lot to do. You don’t want to change your mind about that Chinese girl… No, no, I can see you don’t. It’s quite all right. Well, goodbye!’ And Monty beat a hasty retreat, thankful to have escaped without any broken bones.

  Matthew sank back into his chair, exhausted once more. He poured himself a drink of iced water from the vacuum flask on his desk and gulped it quickly; he must soon have a talk with Walter and try to persuade him to stop all this ridiculous replanting. How much had already been carried out? He searched in vain among the papers on his desk but he could not find the figures he wanted before lethargy once more stole over him. With an effort he roused himself and went outside to the tinroofed garage where the Major was performing a laborious inspection of the trailer-pump. He intended to discuss the replanting issue with the Major and installed himself in the Major’s open Lagonda nearby: but the heat and his lassitude were too much for him and soon he was drowsing again with his feet poking out of the open door while the Major inspected and cleaned the pump’s sparking-plugs. The Major suspected that it would not be very long before this machine found itself in service. Meanwhile, The Human Condition, diminutive, elderly and frail, dozed perilously under one wire-spoked wheel of the motor-car which was on a slight gradient and might decide to roll forward at any moment, putting
an end to its miseries.

  The Major was thinking of Vera Chiang as he worked, and of Harbin in 1937. ‘How hard life can be for refugees!’ he mused, squinting at a sparking-plug (his eyesight was no longer what it had been). ‘We don’t realize in our own comfortable, well-ordered lives what it must be like to lose everything in one of these political upheavals that bang and clatter senselessly round the world like thunderstorms uprooting people right and left.’ He sighed and the sparking-plug which lay in his palm grew blurred and changed into a picture of Harbin … what was it? … four, no, five years ago almost. Harbin had surely been one of the most depressing places on earth.

  That had been on the Major’s first trip out East … when he had suddenly, on an impulse, decided to give up the settled, comfortable life he was leading in London and see the world, visit François in Indo-China, visit Japan, too, and see what all the fuss was about … see what life itself was all about before it was too late and old age descended on him. You might have thought that Harbin was a Russian city from the great Orthodox cathedral towering over Kitaiskaya and Novogorodnaya Street, and from the Russian shop-signs you saw, the vodka, the samovars, the Russian cafés and the agreeable sound of the Russian language being spoken everywhere. But it was a Russian city which had turned into a nightmare of poverty for the White Russians who had been washed eastwards on the tidal wave of the Revolution. How helpless they were! How few human beings, the Major thought with a sigh, can exert by hard work, thrift, intelligence or any other virtue the slightest influence on their own destiny! That was the grim truth about life on this planet.