The Rain Forest

by Olivia Manning

  He passed Pedley in the corridor. Pedley ignored him. Sir George was a heavy man nearing the end of his service. He had a big, square-chinned face of an even raspberry colour, that might have been carved from old red standstone. He half rose in his seat and offered Hugh his hand, saying in a bland sing-song: ‘Happy to meet you, Foster. Hope you’ll enjoy your stay with us. Now, I gather you’ve made an error of judgement. Could happen to any one of us. Pedley’s a good chap, inclined to fly off the handle. Don’t let him worry you. Sit down, do.’

  Hugh sank down, stupid with relief.

  ‘Now, about this pass. You were not to know that the back of the island is out of bounds. You’ll ask me why? I can only say, we have our reasons. Among them is the fact it is a forested area, very dense. The slaves who went there, never came back. We don’t want to lose Dr Hobhouse, do we? And if he is lost, we’ve no rescue team to send after him.’

  As Sir George smiled broadly, Hugh felt sufficiently restored to try and defend Simon. ‘He said he had experience of the forest and knew his way around.’

  ‘He said that, did he? He’s a bit full of himself, is Hobhouse. Thinks the rules don’t apply to him. He took advantage of your ignorance of conditions over there. And your ignorance of service rulings. Not very nice, Foster, not very nice.’ Sir George stood and again held out his hand: ‘Remember in future, it’s not your job to issue passes.’ He smiled his broad smile and said in a pleading tone: ‘Don’t do it again, Foster.’

  Hugh’s response was heartfelt: ‘No, sir, I certainly won’t’ and he was outside the door before he realized he had said ‘sir’. In a London office, Easterbrook would have been ‘George’ to the staff, at most ‘Sir George’, but who could impose the idea of a classless society on these people? And oddly enough, Hugh was not wholly displeased by the fact he had left behind him the freedom of maturity and was back in the world of school.

  The Fosters had left behind them not only casual manners but casual weather. When Kristy complained of the sticky heat and the difficulty of writing with a pen that became so wet, it slipped from the hand, Ambrose said ‘The Monsoon is a lazy time. When the Trades settle into the south-east, it will be cooler and you’ll be invigorated and feel the will to create.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  Ambrose laughed: ‘The powers that be organized the weather in this part of the world so we know exactly what will happen next.’

  They discovered that people on Al-Bustan did not speak of winter and summer but of winds and transitional periods. Hugh and Kristy had arrived in a transitional period. The storms that swept the island were not freakish or haphazard: they resulted from the North-East Trades giving way to the South-East Trades. Rain was not a nuisance but a blessing. Rain all the year round prevented the island from turning, at certain seasons, into a dust heap.

  The clouds that piled themselves over the sea, rising in gigantic curves that slowly swelled up like inflating balloons, black on grey, grey on white, white on black, were not, as they had first seemed, an ominous sight. They brought refreshment for man and beast, foliage and flowers.

  Kristy, at her desk, looked down on the harbour and saw the Arab dhows loading up with island produce and preparing to return home. They would sail away at the end of the North-East Trades and later, when the wind veered south, they would return with merchandise from the Arab world. The same dhows, the same produce, had been blown back and forth for centuries. She realized that the winds were named not, as she had thought, for the British and their tea clippers but for the Arabs with their little dhows. She noted it, as she noted everything, and saw it was a matter for wonder. At the moment she found Al-Bustan as formless as a map held too close to the eyes; but one day, when she had left it, she would remember it complete, like a sphere, and brilliantly strange. Meanwhile, she was roughing out what she called to herself ‘the suicide story’. She saw something peculiarly pertinent in the fact that Hugh’s father and his second wife had both been medicos, and she worked on the fact with enthusiasm. The first draft of the book was going so well, she had quite forgotten the annoyance of Mrs Axelrod and Mrs Prince. When she could work, the world had no defects. Secure in her creative retreat, she brushed aside a card that required them to luncheon at the Residency and meet Sir Beresford and Lady Urquhart.

  ‘I can’t interrupt my work for that. You go without me.’

  Hugh refused to take this seriously: ‘You’ll have to come with me. Look, it’s so important, they’ve given us three weeks’ notice to get into training. You’ll feel different when the time comes.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Unable to imagine anything being of importance outside her own afflatus, she said: ‘I don’t want to go, and I’m not going. There’s only one way to live: by doing what one wants to do and not doing what one doesn’t want to do.’

  ‘That’s all very well in London, but you chose to come here so once in a while you must do what you don’t want to do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For my sake. You should back me up – not, I may say, that you ever have backed me up.’

  ‘Never backed you up? Did we go to that bloody club to please me? Do you think I had anything in common with the pretentious, limited show-offs we met there? Do you think I wanted to put on a jolly act to be one of them? If you do, you must be mad. It was all for your sake. I would have been just as happy eating a hamburger and getting on with my work. The trouble was, you’d gone the wrong way and someone had to help you through it.’

  ‘What do you mean: “I’d gone the wrong way”?’

  ‘You know what I mean. You went outwards instead of inwards. You hadn’t the courage to look into yourself, you were afraid of what you might find.’

  Hugh had a painful sense that Ambrose was not the only one listening in to this quarrel. He glanced to one side and saw Ogden leaning back in his chair with an intent expression. He said quietly: ‘Come to please me, Kristy. We’re already marked down as a couple of eccentrics. Don’t make things more difficult than need be.’

  Ambrose, having seen Hugh’s desperate glance round, felt drawn into the argument: ‘You shouldn’t miss the Residency,’ he said. ‘It used to be the sultan’s winter palace, and I’m told it’s charming. The garden is quite famous. I must say, I’d jump at an invitation.’

  Kristy, in exasperated acquiescence, said: ‘Oh, all right.’

  6

  The rains were dying out in brief morning showers. Between the showers, steam clouded up from the soaked ground and the island was a grisaille, the Indian Ocean a ghost sea, its long, monotonous waves rolling in, blue as buttermilk.

  On the day of the Residency luncheon, the sun, like a thirsty dog, had licked up the moisture by breakfast-time and was blazing at mid-day. Hugh said: ‘We’ll take a taxi and arrive cool and composed.’

  The taxi, when it eventually appeared in answer to Akbar’s telephone call, was the very one that had abducted the Fosters on the night of their arrival. The driver seemed not to recognize them but they recognized him.

  Hugh said: ‘I don’t want this one. Get me another one.’

  ‘Not any other,’ said Akbar. ‘Only one, two taxi at harbour. Him best.’ Contemptuous of the Fosters’ complaints, Akbar waved them off in his lordly way and they realized there was no time for argument.

  The driver remained impassive until he was stopped at the Residency gates by two policemen, an Arab and a Negro, who had to check the Fosters’ right of entry. They went very slowly through the guest list and the driver picked his teeth more and more fiercely as the wait was prolonged. When, at last, the gates were opened and the taxi allowed through, he leant out and spat, shouting ‘Bastard men’ then drove at a furious pace down the long curving drive. The first sight of the Residency, its domed Oriental façade rising amid palm trees, was lost on the Fosters who clung to their seats, certain the driver intended to rush the taxi up the steps and crash in through the open doorway at the top. A man standing on the steps seemed to think the same thing
. He jumped back as the taxi approached but the driver, turning the wheel, managed to come to a stop. As the man came down the steps to welcome the Fosters, the driver bawled at him: ‘Bastard men. All English bastard men.’

  Smiling imperturbably, the man introduced himself: ‘I’m Cyril Millman, aide to the Governor. So pleased to meet you.’

  ‘I’m sorry to arrive as part of a demonstration,’ Hugh said.

  ‘Oh, these little incidents occur. Don’t give him more than five rupees.’

  The driver accepted this sum without comment and Millman, placing a hand lightly on the shoulder of each of the Fosters, led them up to the central hall of the Residency. This act of kindness so surprised and reassured them that Hugh was about to tell the hilarious story of their first taxi ride on Al-Bustan. Before he could get going, Millman, having delivered them into the hall, turned and hurried back to his watch on the steps.

  Eighteen or more other guests were standing about, bored and constrained, awaiting the Urquharts. The arrival of the Fosters seemed to cause a diversion and Hugh, looking at Kristy, realized how extraordinary she must seem to them in her yellow Pucci outfit and her Gamba shoes. As she walked down the length of the hall and stopped at the doors that opened on to the rear gardens, she looked serene but Hugh, nervously following, knew it was in just such a situation as this that she could be outrageous.

  As at Gurgur’s, the air was over-conditioned and struck chill. The hall was distinguished by a ceiling that imitated the quadpartite roof of a tent and rose into a miniature dome made of green glass. The dome gleamed like a cabochon emerald and the sun striking through it, cast a little lake of green light on to the ebony blocks of the floor. This fantasy was all that could be seen of the hall’s sultanic past. What else there may have been was buried under the Urquharts’ trophies of empire and the faded medley of chintz-covered sofas on which no one was brave enough to sit.

  A terrace outside was covered by an awning and beyond, its colour heightened by the awning’s shade, was the garden. So resplendent was it that Hugh, fearing she would be drawn out to it, caught Kristy by the elbow.

  A safragi carried round lime juice and Tiger beer. Kristy said: ‘What miserable drinks. It’s not much of a party. You can see we’re a makeshift lot.’

  Hugh had to agree that the guests were not distinguished. Apart from three who were strikingly different, they might all have been inmates of the Daisy. The three were Murodi, an Arab who wore the gold algol of rank, and an elderly Englishwoman who was almost hidden in pink chiffon. Apart from Murodi, the only persons known to Hugh were the Ogdens. Mr Ogden was talking in low tones to a wan, thin woman who wore the dress uniform of a hospital matron. The woman was smiling the distracted smile of one who thinks only of her own face. It was, sadly, a plain face and no longer a young one. Ogden alone had the temerity to talk. Everyone else seemed to be subdued into silence.

  Murodi crossed over to Hugh: ‘We have met before. You remember?’

  ‘Of course. You are Minister for Culture.’

  Murodi seemed pleased that his title should be known. ‘Would you, one day, perhaps, discuss a matter with me? Yes? Then shall I come to your room, or you to mine?’

  ‘I would prefer to come to yours. Please tell me, who is the handsome Arab?’

  Murodi grinned: ‘The ex-sultan, Yusef Abubakr, the once and future king.’

  ‘Was he ever a reigning sultan?’

  ‘Yes, under the British, but for two years only. As a young man he tried to make a revolt and failed. He was deposed. Now, you see, he is a tame dog. He comes to eat at the Governor’s table.’

  ‘You said “once and future”: do you mean, you think he will be restored when the British leave here?’

  ‘No, I think not. I made a quotation only. This island is part of Africa. The Arabs will not rule here again.’

  The Urquharts now made their entry. The hall, that had been quiescent before, sank into a hush as thick as blotting-paper. Even Murodi seemed to hold his breath.

  Without speaking or showing any recognition of their guests, the Urquharts took up their stand in the centre of the hall and stood there. A safragi hurried to them, holding on a tray what appeared to be a very large whisky. Sir Beresford took it and gulped it down, grimacing as if he were swallowing cascara, then looked for another. Another was brought to him.

  He was a thin man, not old but bent like an old man, his chest caving in and his shoulders hunched over it like the hubs of wings. His expression was mordant. While he took his second drink slowly, his black eyes shifted about, viewing the company as though the occasion had been sprung on him and he greatly disliked it. His wife, standing patiently a step behind him, was dowdy and stout and seemed nervously aware that more was expected of her than she could give.

  The second whisky finished, Sir Beresford, for the first time, raised his twanging, nasal voice: ‘Come on, then.’ He swung round and led the way to the dining-room.

  By the time the Fosters reached the room, the Urquharts were seated at either end of a long dining-table. Their high-backed chairs, of regal design, were notably larger than the chairs of the guests and each was over-hung by a green feathered punka, much trimmed with gold, its golden cords looped up, perhaps never to be used again. Sir Beresford, watching as the others were seated, showed a sullen boredom at having to share his meal with such people. Millman, seating-plan in hand, put Murodi at Lady Urquhart’s right and Ogden on her left. Mrs Ogden, uneasy but pink with gratification, was placed on Sir Beresford’s right and the matron on his left.

  These four settled, Millman rapidly sorted the rest, displaying a geniality intended to divert everyone from Urquhart’s lack of it. A flurried young woman, so like Lady Urquhart, she could only be her daughter, came in late and Millman seized on Hugh as a suitable neighbour for her.

  When all were seated, two large Nubians entered from opposite ends of the room, each bearing a vast silver tureen. One went to Sir Beresford, the other to Lady Urquhart and the Fosters, ignorant of protocol, looked away from the astonishing sight of host and hostess being served before the guests.

  Kristy, assuming a light and worldly tone, said to the elderly cleargyman beside her: ‘I suppose this isn’t much of an occasion?’

  The clergyman, who had introduced himself as the Reverend Pierce, said in a voice weak with surprise: ‘Why should you think that?’

  ‘The Urquharts being served first. I suppose that means there’s no one here more important than they are?’

  ‘Of course that’s what it means. The governor represents the British sovereign so how could there be anyone present who was more important?’

  The Reverend Pierce sounded exasperated at being drawn into this conversation. Kristy laughed while Pierce and Hugh – and who else? Hugh wondered – looked at her in dismay. She tried to re-establish herself: ‘Ridiculous, keeping this up with the empire down the drain.’

  The clergyman turned away from her and gave his attention to his other neighbour.

  The soup was turtle soup. Kristy who had pitied the turtles, having seen them, tears running from their eyes, carried in carts from the harbour pool to the canning factory, now spoke to her other neighbour: ‘I’m beginning to hate this stuff.’

  The man on her other side, large, strong-bodied, red-faced, with police buttons on his khaki drill jacket, answered her brusquely: ‘It’s excellent soup. You’re lucky to have it. The Residency’s got its own turtle pool. Wouldn’t get better at Buckingham Palace.’ He, too, sounded exasperated and Hugh, catching Kristy’s eye, gave her a slight admonitory shake of the head.

  He saw she had been unfortunate in her neighbours while he had been fortunate. On one side he had Miss Urquhart, a pleasant, simple-looking girl; on the other, the elderly woman in chiffon. The woman told him she was Aggie Hampton, widow of a past chief secretary. Her husband had died in office and she had decided to stay on Al-Bustan where she had a villa and ‘my own darling garden’. She was, Hugh realized, a vivacious relic of
an age when to be entertaining was a social duty. Leaning across to Miss Urquhart, she said: ‘I think we’ve done well, having this beautiful young man between us. Look at his golden hair.’ Miss Urquhart blushed. Mrs Hampton, dried out by the tropical sun, was like a flower pressed in a book. With the unselfconsciousness of the aged, she touched Hugh’s hair, saying: ‘Really, it’s lovely’ and he, too, blushed, and was captivated.

  The fish came in small portions, one for each guest: but someone had the audacity to take two. Ogden, when the safragi reached him, was presented with an empty dish. He shook his head and while the others ate, sat with his hands in his lap. Lady Urquhart, who had seen all, tackled her own portion as though fearful of losing it.

  At the other end of the table, the matron leant towards Sir Beresford and said in a very genteel way: ‘The garden’s looking ever so lovely.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Sir Beresford fixed her with his black eyes as though trying to account for her presence.

  Mrs Ogden, firm in support of the matron, spoke out: ‘Yes, indeed. The garden’s truly lovely.’

  Sir Beresford shifted away from the pair of them and his chair, like an aristocratic pew, hid him from their sight. A dry white wine had been served with the fish but he would have none of it. He frowned at his Nubian who, understanding his master, went away and returned with a whisky bottle from which Sir Beresford helped himself during the meal.

  Kristy could see that Hugh was having an amusing time with Mrs Hampton. Mrs Hampton, in a large transparent hat, a chiffon rose at her throat, threw up her old eyes and gazed ardently at him whenever he spoke, and once or twice placed her skeleton hand on his arm. Miss Urquhart, watching them, was like a nice bull terrier observing human speech and trying to have a part in it.