Fuel for the Flame

by Alec Waugh

  The box was filling up. Everyone was prophesying that their own choice would be the lucky one.

  ‘If Fairweather does it,’ Barbara was announcing, ‘I’m going to throw the most elegant dinner-party that Kassaya has seen.’

  How much has she put on Fairweather, thought Basil angrily. Five Karaki dollars; what did that mean to her, who had the call on thousands? Their picayune little audacities.

  ‘I know who Basil’s picked,’ Shelagh was saying. ‘I’ve followed his advice. Five dollars on Sylvester. If she comes in first …’

  His irritation mounted. How would they be feeling if they had something genuine at stake? Half their year’s income; for that was what it amounted to, after all, to him; half of the spare money that was left over after overheads. The noise below was deafening. Last bets were being shouted. Exhortations were being yelled. The band was not heard above the uproar. The crowd was pressing against the railings.

  The horses filed out on to the track. There she went, the green and the cerise. How smoothly she moved. No wonder she was favourite. He peered through his glasses. Potiphar was third from the rails. She was cavorting, edging forward; her jockey seemed to have her under half-control. She was out of line and he pulled round her head; she was facing away from the course, the tapes went up, and she was left out of the race. A scream went up from the crowd; which was redoubled when the horses were recalled. Basil closed his eyes. This is more than I can stand, Basil thought. I won’t look again until they’re off. The din was louder still. There was another yell. Did that mean they were off? Another false start, he heard Barbara say. He kept his eyes tight closed. I won’t open them till they are really off.

  If only the next five minutes were through and over; if he could go to sleep and wake up and learn the answer. If only …

  ‘They’re offi’ … The scream was continuous and sustained. This must be it. He opened his eyes. Yes, they were off this time. He raised his glasses. They were passing the first bend. He looked at the rear first, moving the glasses forward. One horse was lagging. A jockey in a magenta shirt. Anyhow, Potiphar wasn’t last. There was a bunch of seven or so together. He caught a glimpse among them of a black and red. Sylvester. But no cerise and green. There was a horse by herself out in the open, lying fourth—in blue and gold. Still not the favourite. His heart was pounding fast. Anyhow, she was in the race. On all sides he could hear the roar ‘Potiphar’. His hands were trembling. He could hardly hold the glasses. They were on the leaders now. Claret and grey, black with orange spots, silver and scarlet hoops. Yes, but it was, it was, and two lengths clear ahead … the cerise and green … two lengths ahead and the lead increasing.

  They were half-way round now, nearing the last curve; another two minutes and it would be over. Another two minutes and he would be moving across to Julia. ‘By the way, I forgot to mention it, but I’ve seen the very car for us. We might have a look at it afterwards.’ He glanced at Julia. She was waving her programme. Her face was flushed. She had gripped Barbara’s arm.

  ‘It’s too exciting; I can’t bear it,’ she was crying. Exciting? She didn’t know the meaning of the word. If she could only guess at what he was feeling. He swung back his glasses to the course. They were nearing the straight now. They were coming at him. The distance was foreshortened. He could not see by how much the favourite led; but she was leading; there was no doubt of that. ‘Potiphar, Potiphar.'’ the crowd was yelling.

  He could hear no other name. His blood was pounding. This was the biggest moment of his life. This shouting of the favourite home. ‘Yes, of course I mean it, Julia. The Cis-Italia. The very car for you.’

  The horses were round the bend. Potiphar in the lead. Three, well at least two lengths ahead. Another thirty seconds, another twenty seconds. ‘Potiphar, Potiphar!’ ‘Yes, Julia, of course I mean it.’ Only another fifteen seconds. And then …

  It happened so quickly that he could not believe that it was happening. Another name was being shouted. The shout of ‘Potiphar’ had ceased to be triumphant, was desperate, imploring: a red and black shirt was on the railings, chestnut withers were being flogged. ‘Sylvester, Sylvester, Sylvester!’ The dark head was now on a level with the chestnut. At every stride it was going farther forward. The whip rose and fell, rose and fell. ‘Sylvester, Sylvester, Sylvester!’

  It was a wild shriek of triumph. It was barely by half a head. But there was no doubt at all. The favourite had been beaten. At his side Shelagh was jumping up and down excitedly. ‘Wonderful, wonderful. Oh, thank you, Basil, thank you. What’ll it pay off? Twenty-five, twenty … and I put on five dollars. Think of it, a hundred dollars. I’ll spend all of it on one thing. Something that I can keep as a souvenir. Think of your spotting Sylvester, simply by looking at her. You’re wonderful.’

  ‘I’m a thought reader, didn’t you know?’

  He spoke gaily, laughingly, as the man should who has put a dollar on an outsider; when the number of thirty-three went up on the Tote he showed the appropriate enthusiasm. ‘Shall I take your chit?’ he said to Shelagh.

  ‘Oh, no, no, no. I’m going to have the thrill of collecting it myself. I can’t wait to see him count out all that money.’

  ‘When you come back,’ her father said, ‘I’ll take you round to the Chief’s box.’

  The Studholmes’ box was exactly opposite the winning post. It was larger than the G.M.‘s, but more sparsely furnished. It was a place where there was more standing than sitting, where visitors paid their respects and left. On the long buffet table were cakes and sandwiches, jugs of iced coffee and lemonade and a tea urn, but no gin or whisky.

  The A.D.C. was standing inside the door. ‘The Chief will be so glad you’ve come, and that you’ve brought your daughter.’ He smiled as he said that. He had a nice smile and a nice voice, Shelagh thought. ‘If you could wait one second …’

  Studholme was with a Malay, who was gesticulating eagerly as he talked. The A.D.C. leant sideways towards Shelagh. ‘None of these fellows know how to break off a conversation.’ He said it in a whisper that was almost conspiratorial. ‘I’ll have to intervene.’ He moved round on the other side of Studholme and leant forward. Shelagh could not hear what he said, but the interruption sufficed to break the flow of the Malay’s eloquence. He returned with a grin.

  ‘Coast clear,’ he said.

  Studholme stood up as she came forward. He seemed to her very much like the diplomats in whisky advertisements, thin, fragile, elegant, with a sense of power.

  ‘Welcome to our island,’ he said. ‘A travel writer once told me that he always trusted his first impressions, that he learnt more about a new place in his first five days there than in his next five months. When you come to dine with us, perhaps you will tell me what your impressions are. We must arrange a young persons’ party. Gerald, will you fix that? See when we have an evening free. And find out the kind of evening that would amuse Miss Keable, while I discuss something a little less frivolous with her father, though I know a race meeting is not considered the proper occasion for talking shop.’ He said it with a smile; he liked talking shop on inappropriate occasions. ‘I hate offices,’ he would say. ‘A man must have a desk where he can study his files, draft reports, dictate letters, interview applicants, but they don’t create a congenial atmosphere in which to discuss mutual problems with an opposite number. There’s too much the air of a headmaster. I believe in impromptu discussions.’

  Which was all very well for him, Charles Keable thought. He, as the chief Briton in the island, held the initiative. He could think out his thesis, have his subject at his finger-tips, choose his time; it was very different for the executive or politician who was taken off his guard, who had not studied his brief, who had to give snap answers. What was it now, he wondered.

  ‘It’s nothing very serious,’ Studholme said. ‘I only wanted to know whether you had had any opposition to your opening the camp gates.’

  It was one of Keable’s innovations. The camp was surrounded
with high wire fences and the previous manager had locked the gates at night. In the belief that the villagers had objected to being barred from what they called their own land, Charles had ordered the gates to be left open, though he had secured the actual refinery and the installations against sabotage.

  ‘Do some of the women complain that they don’t feel safe walking about at night?’ Studholme asked.

  ‘They did at first. In fact they were extremely vocal, but in six months there’ve been no incidents. I’ve told them that they are far more likely to run into trouble in Soho when the Teddy boys have had too much to drink.’

  ‘Exactly. And there’s another thing. …’

  Shelagh, her audience ended, with her stepmother talking to the A.D.C., had turned aside to find a pair of very bright blue eyes staring at her. A tall fair girl with a soft pink and white complexion and a large nose stepped forward, with outstretched hand.

  ‘No one’s bothered to introduce us, but I’m Lila Hare, the stepdaughter.’

  Her handshake was firm, cordial, retentive. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. I wondered what you’d be like. We’re in the same boat.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Both having step parents, being brought up by a stepfather. It isn’t the same thing.’

  ‘I know it isn’t.’

  ‘There are things about being a stepchild that only another stepchild knows. We can talk in shorthand. We don’t need to explain things to each other, you and I.’

  She was speaking with an intensity that both surprised and attracted Shelagh. It’s true, she thought, there is something different about us. That’s why they’d called themselves ‘The Chosen’.

  ‘We’ve got to be friends,’ Lila was continuing. ‘One needs a friend here, at least I do; I expect you do too. I have to be diplomatic all the time, saying things I don’t feel, being nice to people whom I don’t like; ugh, they send shudders down my back, some of them. You’ll be in the same position, more or less, with your father running Pearl. Do you think you’re going to like it here?’

  ‘I’m sure I am.’

  ‘You’re lucky. I don’t like the people. Do you see that man talking to Daddy now? You can see him without turning round. Angus Macartney indeed! A Scots name like that, and look at that dark oily skin. Pa thinks him wonderful. He’s up at the house all the time.’

  Shelagh looked in his direction. To her, Angus Macartney seemed attractive. There was a wiry vitality about him, and he was good-looking, no one could have denied that. He looked as though he was in a hurry, as though he wished there were thirty instead of twenty-four hours in a day.

  ‘He’s greasy,’ Lila was continuing. There was a sharp high note in her voice. She stopped and smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and her voice dropped a tone. It acquired a contralto richness.

  ‘I have to control myself so much, that sometimes I lose control when I haven’t got to control myself, if you know what I mean.’ She smiled, and there was warmth in her smile. I think I’m going to like her, Shelagh thought.

  ‘We must see a lot of each other,’ Lila was saying. ‘It won’t be difficult to arrange. You can come and stay with us. Our house is immense. You haven’t anything to do, have you? They won’t make you work?’

  ‘No, they won’t make me work.’

  ‘Nor do they make me. But that doesn’t mean I’m not being rushed from one good work to another. They’re so terrified that I’ll be bored. That’s how it is with you, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s how I think it may be.’

  ‘It will be; don’t I know! We’re in the same boat. Didn’t I tell you? We must stick together. Do you think I’m terrible, talking like this the first time we’ve met? I believe in going to the point straightaway. One hasn’t time to waste. I let everything pour out. I like to put all my cards on the table. You’re a virgin, aren’t you? I am.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. One can always tell. You can’t really be a friend with somebody who isn’t, if you are one yourself. We’re going to be friends, I know that. Real, real friends. You must stay the night with us for the big dance. Then we can compare notes about all the men. Anyhow, I’ll come out next week and see you.’

  Lila was like no one Shelagh had met before. She attracted her, but at the same time frightened her.

  Basil looked at his pile of dollars ruefully. ‘If you can make a pile of all your winnings …’ He shrugged. He was through with gambling from now on. Never again, never, never again. He walked slowly back towards the box. ‘I am sorry. I am very sorry,’ a voice at his elbow said. ‘But perhaps you backed the favourite both ways, as I did.’

  The Indian in the blue flannel suit wore on his face an expression of concerned condolence.

  ‘I hope you did back the horse both ways, Mr. Hallett. I very certainly advised you to.’

  ‘I wish that I had followed your advice.’

  ‘Then you have lost a hundred pounds.’

  ‘I have lost a hundred pounds.’

  ‘And Mrs. Hallett would have looked so charming seated at the wheel of that Cis-Italia.’

  ‘That is what I thought.’

  ‘It is sad but … well … it is sadder for us than it is for Mrs. Hallett. We enjoyed the picture of her seated there. We have been deprived of that picture. She has not, because she never had it. So she will not feel resentful against you. That is a great thing gained. But in the meantime you have lost a hundred pounds. I feel guilty about that. It was because of me that you lost it, and I should like to make some little recompense. I made, after all, a great deal of money. I will not tell you how much, but it was a great deal of money. I can very well afford to share your loss; I shall be very glad to.’

  ‘But I couldn’t possibly do that.’

  ‘Why not? I can afford it.’

  ‘I could never pay you back.’

  ‘Not in cash, perhaps, but there are other ways.’

  ‘What other ways?’

  ‘How can I tell now? I told you, didn’t I, the way I live by helping and being helped by those who live upon the racecourse. I cannot tell exactly how you will be able to help me, but I am very sure you will. Today I am able to do for you something which costs me very little. In a few weeks’ time, you may be able to do for me something that costs you very little, maybe that does not cost you anything at all. Or maybe the opportunity will never arrive: and that will not matter in the least. It will be a happiness to me to remember that on a day that was a lucky one for me, I was able to do a small thing for the gracious husband of the so-very-beautiful Mrs. Hallett. Come now, my friend, we will not discuss it any more. You will receive a cheque on Tuesday morning.’

  The cheque arrived in a plain envelope, with a sheet of blank notepaper round it, so that no one holding it up to the light could have recognized its contents. The postmark was Kuala Prang. It was a Barclay’s cheque. The signature was indecipherable. It seemed Chinese. Basil turned the cheque over in his hands. Why not, after all, why not? Was there any reason why he shouldn’t? The Indian had made a lot of money. It was because of the Indian that he had lost his hundred pounds. This fifty pounds meant little to the Indian. It would mean a great deal to him. Fifty pounds might seem an infinitesimally small sum, but it would make it possible for him to manage over the next few weeks without his indebtedness becoming apparent to Julia. That was the great thing that mattered. That Julia should not be aware that he was practising economies. He signed the cheque and mailed it to his bank.

  Chapter Ten

  On the evening of the ball at the Residency to celebrate Prince Rhya’s engagement, Lila and Shelagh went up early to their room.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ Lila said. ‘Let’s have our drinks upstairs.’

  She ordered gin and tonics for them both, then lay back on her bed, with her pillows piled high behind her, sipping at a straw, wrapped round in a light dressing-gown.

  ‘Do you feel excited?’ she said. ‘I don’t. That’s a relief. Two year
s ago I’d have been terrified. I still wasn’t sure about my looks. How soon did you lose that fear that nobody would want to dance with you?’

  ‘I don’t know that I ever had it.’

  ‘You didn’t? No, I suppose you wouldn’t. You’ve always been pretty; even when you were “Carrots”, you must have known that you were going to be pretty; with those eyes and that complexion. I wish I had known you then. But me, I didn’t—know I was going to be pretty, I mean to say. No one had a crush on me at school. I was pimply and ungainly. I hated the sight of myself; I didn’t believe that anyone would care for me; my mother only cared for me out of pity—the ugly duckling. I’d look at birds and butterflies and flowers and fields, with oh, such hatred, such resentment in my heart. Everything in nature was so beautiful, why should I be hideous? Then suddenly there was the miracle.’ She swung herself off the bed. She crossed to the long wardrobe mirror.

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘It happened so quickly in a summer holiday. I came back scraggy, spotty. We went to Studland; and then, I don’t know how it happened, my lines became curves, the spots vanished. Boys turned to look at me. I couldn’t believe that it would last. If I found a spot on my side it drove me crazy. Every time I took a bath I would search myself for blemishes. If I saw a slight redness under my arm, I would torture myself all day long. Was it the prelude to a spot, to a series of spots? I worried so about it that I began to itch. I ached to scratch it and I didn’t dare. I’d keep on running upstairs to look at it. My fidgeting drove my mother mad. But now …’ She laughed. She spread her arms, holding her dressing-gown wide open. She turned before the glass. ‘If those girls at St. Mark’s could see me now! Heavens, what they missed.’ She stretched herself back upon the bed, sipping at the straw.