Contents
About the Author
Also by Olivia Manning
Title
Dedication
Part One: The Bat
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two: The Bird Tree
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Three: The Rain Forest
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Copyright
About the Author
Olivia Manning, OBE, was born in Portsmouth, Hampshire, spent much of her youth in Ireland and, as she put it, had ‘the usual Anglo-Irish sense of belonging nowhere’. She married just before the War and went abroad with her husband, R. D. Smith, a British Council lecturer in Bucharest. Her experiences there formed the basis of the work which makes up The Balkan Trilogy. As the Germans approached Athens, she and her husband evacuated to Egypt and ended up in Jerusalem, where her husband was put in charge of the Palestine Broadcasting Station. They returned to London in 1946 and lived there until her death in 1980.
Also by Olivia Manning
Novels
The Wind Changes
Artist for the Missing
School for Love
A Different Face
The Doves of Venus
The Play Room
The Balkan Trilogy
The Great Fortune
The Spoilt City
Friends and Heroes
The Levant Trilogy
The Danger Tree
The Battle Lost and Won
The Sum of Things
Short Stories
Growing Up
A Romantic Hero
The Rain Forest
Olivia Manning
To
Isobel English
Neville Braybrooke
Francis King
with love
PART ONE
The Bat
1
The Fosters, Hugh and Kristy, both at the mid-seasonal age of thirty-five, journeyed to Al-Bustan on the Thursday boat. The other Englishman on board exchanged a glance with Hugh then turned his back on him. Hugh, newly appointed to the Al-Bustan government service, decided that this man was also an official. Seeing in his classical, bearded face a romantic father image, Hugh was attracted to him but too nervous to approach him. The voyage had lasted five hours and during that time the two men had remained apart.
Kristy, who had perched herself on the cover of the companionway, was in no state to approach anyone. She was untidy and felt exhausted. They had flown, via Paris, from London to Nairobi, then risen at dawn to catch the early plane to Réunion, that being the only one that connected with the boat. Of course, the whole journey could have been done in a more leisurely fashion. They could have spent a few days in Nairobi. At Réunion, had they waited, they might have been picked up by the inter-island helicopter: but the helicopter was unreliable and Hugh would not risk it. Harassed by the need to know the worst about his new job, he had resented even their five hours of sleep in the Nairobi airport hotel.
For ten years Hugh had been a writer of film-scripts, working when he chose to work, which was every day and all day, and seeing himself a free man. Like other script-writers known to him, he could not say exactly what had happened, but, at a time when a whole new generation of effective, ambitious young men was making itself noticed, he found his work disappearing from under him. He could not, as he usually did, expect to pay this year’s income-tax out of next year’s earnings because it seemed there would be no earnings. So here he was, obliged to attend an office at fixed hours and be answerable to other men.
Every stop on the route suggested to him that he seize the chance to fly back home again so, to counter his panic, he insisted on haste. Away from his friends, he began to feel isolated in misfortune; the more isolated because Kristy did not depend on his success. She had her own career as a writer and, if need be, could keep herself. While it seemed to him that the ten years of their marriage had gone down in nothingness, she could account for their every minute. She had preserved them in her novels.
Looking up at her where she sat with her black hair limp from the heat, her face white in the glowing pallor of the light, he could see she was tired out: but, for all that, he could imagine her mind still working away like an eccentric wheel.
Hugh knew he should have been glad that Kristy had chosen to come with him, but he was not glad. He never knew what she would do or say next. Her outspokenness had gone down well enough among their London friends but would it go down on Al-Bustan? He would have preferred to face this new life without the worry of her. And she, if she had to spend her time writing, could do it as well at home. He looked away from her, knowing that their marriage, begun in love, was breaking up in rivalry and discontent.
The island should have been in sight by now but a sea mist blanketed the boat. They were making their way through it at about two knots with the siren braying and other sirens answering. There was nothing to be seen, only the fog enclosing them like a dirty pearl. The decks were littered with baggage and people sprawling on it, asleep from boredom. Families had grouped themselves to pass round saucers of beans or chapattis with curry. The boat reeked of curry but now another smell was beginning to seep through: a sweet, heavy flower smell. The name of Al-Bustan meant The Garden and this was the garden’s scent.
Kristy, bemused by heat and the monotonous drift through opaque haze had forgotten they were going anywhere. She was cogitating a story that did not belong to her: it was Hugh’s story, though he was never likely to write it. It concerned his mother who, at the age Hugh and Kristy had now reached, had committed suicide. Her husband had fallen in love with another woman and the wife could not face life without him. Or, perhaps, she had wanted to spite him; or merely to frighten him. She may have expected him to come back and find her in a coma. But he did not come back: he stayed out all night. It was Hugh who found her, but too late. He had risen at 8 o’clock and, thinking she was asleep, had got his own breakfast and gone to school. When he came back in the late afternoon, she was still asleep. Only she was not asleep: she was dead.
Kristy had kept that story at the back of her mind since first hearing it, not from Hugh – nothing would induce him to speak of it – but from a man who had been his friend at school. She had never gone close to it, thinking it a claustrophobic, incestuous sort of story, not her own. Now, as though the move from its setting had released her inhibition about it, she had begun to consider it. Hugh had been ten when his mother had died in that way. What sort of woman could, for the sake of a faithless husband, abandon a dependent child? And, what was worse, leave him with an ever-present sense of guilt? – for had he tried to waken her when he rose at eight o’clock, he might have been in time to save her.
The guilt she had surmised from a look that came on his face, a furtively defensive look, when someone unwittingly spoke of suicide. What he felt, she imagined, was a peculiar sinking of the heart: and that was something he must suffer for the rest of his life.
Other emotions, too. Chagrin? A sense of unjust deprivation? Grievance, of course. What else? Never quite certain of him, she looked for him among the people on the deck and saw him moving towards the bows. He was a youthful-looking man, not as tall as he would wish to be but with a blunt, kindly face that won people to him. He was, wit
h his fair hair, distinctive among the crowd of dark-haired Arabs and Indians. His hair was his most striking feature. It was of so clear a gold that it looked metallic and, even in this light, flashed as he turned his head. She could see he was making his way, diffidently, but with a purposeful diffidence, towards the Englishman who stood in the fore of the ship. The man, facing out to sea, was unaware of this advance and Hugh, moving in on him, went with the caution of a hunter. Feeling his expectancy, Kristy felt an old irritation: and yet she was sorry for him. She knew she added to his insecurity. Without her, he could adapt to any situation: with her, he was anxious and on edge. In London, they had almost reached the point of separating yet, when she had the choice, she had chosen to accompany him. She did not want to live alone. They were, she thought, both lost children, though neither was ever likely to admit this to the other.
The shape of the island had appeared like a shadow on the fog, and the passengers were stirring and putting their bundles together. Hugh, who had ceased to watch for it, was astonished to see it there. Its size surprised him: it looked more like some dangerous obstacle, a rock or a giant iceberg, than an objective. Having reached the bearded Englishman, he was sufficiently roused to speak: ‘So we’ve got here at last.’
‘We’re an hour late, but fog’s not unusual at this time of the year.’
Encouraged, Hugh introduced himself then realized that the other man had not meant to encourage him. He stared at Hugh with critical and insolent directness, obviously deciding whether or not to waste time on him, and when he spoke at last, he gave his name grudgingly: ‘I’m Simon Hobhouse.’ He looked Hugh up and down then added, in the tone of an examining magistrate: ‘May I ask what you are doing here?’
Hugh did not take offence. Having exalted the man, who was less than ten years his senior, to the paternalistic order, he was able to answer with genial mildness: ‘I’m taking up a temporary job with the government. I’m to monitor the Indian satellite and bring out a news-sheet. The idea is to interest the ministers in world politics; to widen their outlook. At the moment, apparently, they’re all stuck in local affairs.’
Hugh, having done bigger things, could speak lightly of his new job but he did not expect Hobhouse to see it as ludicrous. He was startled when the man threw back his head and shouted: ‘So you’re bringing world politics to Al-Bustan! Oh, my God!’
‘You’re not in the O.C.S.?’
‘I most certainly am not.’ Hobhouse turned, dismissing Hugh, then, on second thoughts, swung round again: ‘Why did you have to come four thousand miles to take a job like that?’
Hugh was about to explain when Hobhouse said: ‘Don’t bother to tell me.’ He pointed to the island: ‘Watch.’
The boat was sliding into the harbour. The sun, that had been out of sight all day, was now appearing; a fireball sinking in a welter of red. The island was taking on colour, first showing as a watery blur of green and gold, then, as though shifted into focus, appearing so immediate and defined that Hugh had the illusion of seeing it through a magnifying glass. Its façade rose almost sheer from the water-front and seemed to overhang the boat. It was covered in greenery. At the water’s edge, there were coconut palms while above, from the harbour right up to the Arab city, vegetation was so crowded that trees and bushes jutted from ledges with roots clinging like fingers. The trees were all burdened with flowers or fruit or nut clusters held in webby bags like the young of spiders. The fruit was so profuse it not only grew on branches but out of tree trunks.
A road wound uphill. Villas stood among gardens and at the top of the island was the Medina, a small unit of pinks and cream, spined with minarets like a hedgehog. Above the city, divided from it by a stretch of grass, was the rock ridge that ran across the island from east to west. Suddenly, as though they had materialized when he was looking elsewhere, Hugh saw that two vast peaks rose from the ridge, forming the apex of a mountain range greater than the Himalayas; a drowned range of which nothing could be seen but this one mountain-top, Al-Bustan.
The sinking sun lit everything with a syrup light, as richly pink as the heart of a pumpkin. Under this light the greens deepened and took on lustre. For a moment the island seemed a mosaic of incandescent stones, olivine, jade and malachite inset with coral, then, in an instant, night came down. Lights appeared. The scene was gone.
Hugh, turning to his companion, found that he, too, had gone. As the boat bumped the quay, a clamour rose among the passengers struggling to be first ashore: but Hobhouse was off before any of them. Hugh could see him making a brisk, independent departure down the gangway, a bag in each hand, a rucksack on his back. There were only two taxis on the quay. He threw his luggage into one of them, sprang in after it and was driven away. Meanwhile the passengers, massed together, were fighting their way down the gangway as porters and safragis fought their way up.
A Nubian in a silk kaftan was the first on deck. He shouted at Hugh: ‘You for Praslin?’
‘No, Daisy Pension.’
The Nubian made a scoffing sound and pushed into the crowd, demanding of any likely person: ‘You for Praslin?’
Hugh could see Kristy still up aloft, gazing down as though too weary to attempt a descent. He called to her and collecting as much of their baggage as he could carry, set out to emulate Simon Hobhouse. He was surrounded at once by jeering porters who snatched the bags from his hands and tossed them down to their confederates below. One bag fell and was caught, giving rise to much laughter, as it was about to slide between ship and quay.
The Praslin safragi, having collected three Kuwati Arabs for his hotel, came down the gangway at Hugh’s heels. As the Fosters put foot on land, they were engulfed in porters who demanded payment, at the same time impeding the Praslin party. The Nubian sternly ordered the porters to one side and told Hugh how to deal with them: ‘You give one rupee each luggage.’ He watched with attentive superiority as Hugh found the money then he asked the onlookers: ‘Where Daisy Pension man?’
Where, indeed! No safragi awaited Hugh and Kristy and the Praslin safragi, contemptuous and pitying, ordered the remaining taxi to take the Fosters to the pension. He then held out his hand: ‘I do you service. You give three rupee.’ Putting the money into the folds of his kaftan, he led his Arabs to a large American car marked: ‘PRASLIN HOTEL, Pride of the Southern Seas.’
Settled into the taxi, the Fosters felt the worst was over.
Hugh said: ‘Thank heaven we know where we’re going,’ and he gazed indulgently out at the lights and crowds and hubbub of the harbour. The taxi, jolting and coughing over the pebbles, did not take wing until it reached the quiet of the upper road. Here the only lights were bulbs strung at intervals among the filmy foliage of the roadside trees. They did not reveal much but they did show Kristy a large white turreted house flying the Union Jack. The same house had been pictured on the Daisy Pension writing-paper and she said: ‘We’ve just passed it.’
The taxi did not stop. Hugh called out: ‘How far to Daisy Pension?’
The driver’s face, dark, with one black eye and one white eye, jerked to his shoulder: ‘Daisy Pension very long time.’
Having been told the pension was just above the harbour, Hugh dared not speak. They came to a circus cut into the cliff where a tall building shone out but offered no help. The driver shouted ‘This place where sultan had great show with horses. No dirty British those times.’ A long white wall ran beside the rising road. When the wall ended, the road became rough and steep and the driver accelerated to take the ascent. Skidding this way and that, the car tore through the branches of unfamiliar trees and came out at last to level ground. Here there were no street lamps and the sky, hazed with heat, gave no light. A vast darkness stretched into the distance but on the right, some half a mile away, there was a glimmer from the Arab city.
‘Medina.’ The driver waved towards it and switched on his headlights. As the car wavered drunkenly about the road, the lights lit a chasm on their left.
Hugh, looking to se
e if Kristy were aware of their danger, saw she had closed her eyes. He thought she was asleep and he alone. Alone, he could be robbed and murdered and no one would ever know.
But he was not alone and Kristy was not asleep. When he glanced again at her, she had opened her eyes and had turned towards him as he had turned towards her. Realizing she shared his fear, he caught her hand and held to it, and so they sat: feeling united and thankful, in this threatening situation, that each had the other.
The taxi, swinging right, advanced on the Medina, rocking over pot-holes and loose pebbles, and followed a wall until it reached a space where cars were parked about a petrol pump. Here, without a pause, the driver took a turn, too sharply and too fast and Kristy gave a cry and wrung Hugh’s hand. They skidded but stayed upright. With a wild burst of speed, the car returned to the dark road, skirting the chasm with scarcely a yard to spare. In the distance, a long way below, the Fosters could see the lights of the harbour. At last they were down again among lived-in places and their hands fell loose and they lay back, one on each side of the car, too enervated to comment on what had happened. The driver braked, flinging them forward, and they found they had stopped in front of the turreted house that flew the Union Jack.
The front door was thrown open. The figure standing within it was a Nubian, as tall, imposing and richly dressed as the Praslin safragi. His kaftan was of dark blue rep and on his head he wore a round cap crocheted in pink and white silk. As he emerged, Kristy jumped from the taxi and pointed to the driver: ‘This man has taken us all round the island.’
The Nubian’s large eyes seemed to jolt from his head at this accusation. He raised his brows and speaking in Arabic, questioned the driver who replied, making off-hand gestures. The Nubian shrugged and leading Kristy into the pension, said ‘He say yo’ want to see sights. He say yo’ want see Medina.’ Kristy, too tired to argue, asked for the proprietor, a Mrs Gunner.
The Nubian, who with imperious finger movements was ordering some lesser servants to bring in the Fosters’ luggage, said ‘Sayyidah not yet. Here is Akbar,’ he spread a large hand on his chest: ‘Yo’ follow Akbar now.’
The Rain Forest Page 1
