‘The best thing you could have done, sir.’
‘Well, I thought, as she obviously wanted to be left alone – ’
‘Of course she does.’
‘Better not seem to notice her at all – that’s the kindest thing,’ Billson said.
Saxby was reassured, and had just put up his feet on the foot-rest when the young soldier arrived from the polo pit, sweating and crying out for a drink. He said at once, ‘Has anyone seen that girl lately? Why doesn’t the parson come to see her?’
‘She won’t have him,’ Billson said. ‘She’s got some funny notion, you know, that she disgraced the mission and that there oughtn’t to be any connection. Besides, they say she ought to go home and she won’t.’
‘I don’t care, he ought to come and pray with her at the least. Hi, boy, where’s that cold drink?’
Everyone looked with new interest and curiosity at the young soldier. Billson opened his mouth, hesitated a moment and then asked boldly, ‘You think it would do her good?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, but it’s his job I should think. Cheeroh, sir.’ He raised his glass to Saxby.
Saxby was pondering. Everyone was pondering. Now and then someone looked doubtfully at the young man. At last Saxby said in his most thoughtful voice, ‘Prayer, that’s an interesting question.’
The club continued to ponder, but with rather a blank expression of eye as if faced by a huge bare wall. Saxby and Billson finally looked at the subaltern. Saxby’s expression was at once inquiring and a little apprehensive. He was both curious and alarmed. Probably he regretted already his impulsive plunge into a subject so tricky.
The young man with a most cheerful and knowing air was holding up his glass to the firelight. He closed one eye and said, ‘It’s not too bad, this beer of yours, Billson – to look at.’
Every expression at once showed relief, and Saxby said, ‘If you can call lager, beer. Now, real beer – ’
Meanwhile one would suppose that there was a tremendous scandal. The Beattys expected it. So did the station.
But there was no scandal at Dabbi. For some reason no one was particularly shocked about this case, and nobody talked about it very much. It did not strike the imagination. Visitors to Dabbi might be there for half an hour before they heard of it and even then they seemed unable to get any definite flavour out of it.
‘At the rest-house, you say – seven months gone – ’
The rest-house at Dabbi was a round hut with a broken thatch set a little crooked on the walls. It looked as if, slightly fuddled, it had dozed off in the sun a year or two before, with its hat on one ear. The visitors might gaze at it with hopeful interest but this interest faded quickly; they found it like any other rest-house in any of a hundred rather dull little bush stations where there was no butter, no potatoes, no ice; where newspapers were a fortnight old, the library consisted of two Edgar Wallaces and somebody’s Auction Bridge with all the middle pages torn out, and nothing ever happened except in the native town which was a perfect nuisance in any case.
‘Seven months gone – and Caffin’s in Patagonia.’
‘A bit tough on the girl – how’s she taken it?’
‘Well, of course, we don’t see much of her.’
‘Keeps herself to herself?’
‘That’s it – in fact she don’t show up at all.’
By this time interest had entirely disappeared.
‘But he’s in Patagonia, is he? What do they do there?’ and they talked sheep or currency or revolutions.
It was tax time and Saxby was extremely busy. He liked, however, to be busy, and he always made time to see that the rest-house was looked after. He would inspect it twice a day to make sure that the prison gang had swept the compound and brought the water. He built a neat private way to the latrine, of straw mats, from the back door. Saxby was not called ‘dear old Saxby’ for nothing. He was a most good-natured man. Also he felt a real admiration for Miss Smith. He would say, ‘She might have made it damned awkward for everybody, but she’s been no trouble at all. That girl has real guts.’
Some time before, he had written complaining that the station doctor had not yet returned from leave, and pointing out that a station with half a company of troops was entitled to a doctor.
For six weeks this had no effect. The wires were not even acknowledged. Then in May, when Saxby had given up all hope of a doctor, just before six o’clock in the evening of the fourth, a telegram came from headquarters: ‘Clear the line M.O. Bing due Dabbi fourth. Stop. Resdt.’
‘Good God,’ Saxby said, and then he began to laugh. He went down to the club with the wire in his hand. ‘Do you know who they’re sending us for M.O.? – Bing.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Not really.’
‘Not old Bing. Good Lord, what a joke.’ The young soldier gave a shout of laughter, and two people began simultaneously to tell a story about Bing. The rest were smiling even before they heard it. The very idea of Bing made them smile. Bing, or Major Bing, as he preferred to be called, was then one of the biggest jokes in the service.
‘A perfect terror,’ Saxby said smiling. ‘He tried to diet me once. In fact, he did put me off my palm oil chop.’
‘Did you ever hear how he wanted to cut my liver out – well, part of it – ’ Billson laughed heartily at the recollection and having told the story, said, ‘My God, Major Bing is really – ’
‘And due today,’ Saxby said.
‘Today. By Jove.’
There was a thoughtful pause. Then the young soldier got up. ‘I think I’ll just have a look round the barracks,’ and ten minutes later Billson refused a third gin.
‘It’s not because of old Bing,’ he said, but the club laughed.
Yet next morning, when the lorry arrived at last with Bing’s loads, there were groans from all sides. Bing was a joke to the imagination, but in fact he meant trouble for everyone, insults, contempt, and hard work.
Bing’s car was close behind the lorry. He was a short plump man with a purple face and a curled up moustache, like two little rolls of barbed wire; who leant so far backwards as he walked, or rather strutted, that he seemed likely every moment to fall on his own spurs. He always wore uniform, with his war ribbons; sometimes major’s uniform, but usually a khaki coat with shoulder straps which looked like army uniform from a little distance. No one more military than Bing could be imagined. He ought, of course, to have been in the Ram corps, and, like many Ram corps men, he was a student of tactics. He used to cross-examine company commanders about Napoleon’s battles, and prove to the whole station that they knew nothing about war and oughtn’t to be soldiers at all.
Bing’s first visit was expected by the soldiers, and two fatigues had been cleaning up barracks from dawn. Saxby, too, having sent him an invitation for breakfast, ordered an unusually light meal. But Bing did not begin on Saxby’s diet, or Billson’s liver, or the company latrines. He was one of those men who had an infallible nose for the place where the most trouble was to be found, the biggest stink, and, of course, it was usually a place quite unnoticed or long overlooked by the inhabitants. Bing always took his victims unawares, on their exposed side, in flank or rear, and having engaged battle, he massed his artillery and blew a hole in their line before they knew what was happening.
He stopped his car at the rest-house and charged through the doorway. For twenty minutes his loud voice volleyed from within. While Saxby, in great surprise, was still wondering what the noise was about, he came marching across the station, already hot as a griddle, to the divisional office.
‘Look here, Saxby,’ he bawled, without greeting, ‘what the devil do you think you’re playing at with this woman Smith?’
Saxby nearly fell out of his chair. ‘Playing – ’ he said.
‘Playing – playing – damn it, I said playing – by God,’ he stared at Saxby with amazement, ‘I don’t belie
ve he realizes it now – ’
‘Realizes what?’
‘The situation, man, the very urgent and critical situation – dammit, right under your nose for about six months – but I suppose you’ve been absorbed in chasing an odd sixpence through the cash book – ’
‘My dear Bing, I know that Miss Smith was – ah – ’
‘And do you know the regulations of your own silly department? No, dammit, he don’t! Talk about the efficiency of our civil services. Do – you – realize – that it’s absolutely impossible for that woman to have her baby here – that she ought to have gone home two months ago, as I damn well told her.’
Saxby was now perturbed as well as astonished.
‘But, Bing, I don’t think she wants to go home. Naturally, she rather shrinks from it.’
‘What’s that got to do with it? When it’s laid down in black and white that no white woman is allowed to have babies except in a station on the schedule. Perhaps you can show me Dabbi on the schedule, or perhaps not.’ Bing spoke this with an ironical inflexion which had, during the war, thrown regimental sergeant-majors into confusion.
‘But white babies have been born in Dabbi. Mrs Beatty had one last year.’
‘What? Where? Oh, in the damn mission.’ Bing hated all missions, which he considered to be a military necessity, like rum and No. 3 pills. ‘I’m talking about civilian babies,’ he said with hearty contempt.
‘But this is a civilian baby. Miss Smith was a missionary.’
‘Not at all. They drummed her out of the mission. She’s in a Government rest-house, in a Government station, and she’s in my charge. She’s in exactly the same position as an official wife, and her baby is a Government baby.’
‘But Bing, think of her feelings, going home in that state!’
‘Feelings be damned.’ Bing has no more sympathetic imagination than a mule, and much less than a horse. ‘Do you understand the nature of an order?’ he snapped.
‘Really, Bing.’ Saxby was growing slightly annoyed. He thought that Bing was making unnecessary trouble. Bing grew redder. He could not bear the least opposition. ‘I know my duty,’ he said; and no one but Bing could have said such a thing with the same dramatic air. He swelled up his chest, bringing the medal ribbons into great prominence. The ribbons no doubt meant something to Bing, his religion, his idea of things, including himself and his duty, and he entered into that idea with great enthusiasm and energy – an energy overwhelming to Saxby. Saxby, a most dutiful man, was embarrassed by the very word duty. He said mildly, ‘All the same, we have to be careful.’
‘Careful be damned. There’s the regulations. The woman’s in my charge, and I’ll thank you to arrange for deporting her by the next boat. That means leaving here this afternoon. I’ve told her to be ready for an examination at nine, so you’d better go now. And I’m reporting to the P.M.O. by the next mail.’ He made for the door.
Saxby, heavy and slow-moving as he was, rushed after him. ‘But, my dear Bing, I can’t absolutely order the poor girl to – ’
‘You’ll have to. She told me she’d rather shoot herself than go.’
‘What!’ Saxby, with a look of horror, rushed for his hat.
‘You needn’t be alarmed.’ Bing looked his military contempt of a civilian panic. ‘She hasn’t got a gun. I asked her.’ He marched off.
Saxby fell back in his chair and cursed Bing. Then he laughed, and mopped his forehead. ‘My God, what a – really – Bing is – ’
But he knew he would have to act. Bing was an autocrat by nature and education. All doctors tend to autocracy, and Government doctors are tyrants. Ram corps doctors are also tyrants. But Major Bing was worse than any Ram corps doctor, because he was not a real major; he was the dictator who must always act the tyrant because otherwise people will remember his lowly origin.
Saxby sighed and pondered. What was he to do? What could he say to that unlucky girl? Really, it was a terrible position for anybody. He reflected deeply for some time. A bugle sounded from the barracks for the guard-changing; five minutes to nine.
Saxby remembered that at nine Bing was going back to the rest-house. He suddenly felt a deep sense of alarm, so urgent that he was half-way to the rest-house before he had decided what to say.
As he knocked at the door, he was startled to see the girl move quickly across it, as if in flight. He went in at once, but she was already seated on the bed. She glared at him, panting.
‘What do you want?’ she asked furiously.
‘I’m awfully sorry if I seem to intrude, but Doctor Bing came to see me just now.’
‘I’m not going home.’
‘But Bing tells me – ’
‘I’m not going home like this – ’ She made a gesture full of rage, throwing out her hands, like a leper who says, ‘See my horrible body.’ ‘Why should I? You can’t make me – ’
Saxby was startled by this passionate violence. What had happened to that nice little mission girl? It was incredible that she should have changed into this excitable woman with huge, furious eyes. He stood astonished while she declared in the same dramatic manner that she would do what she liked with herself, that she didn’t belong to anybody now.
‘Of course not,’ Saxby murmured. ‘I don’t want to interfere at all – but Doctor Bing – ’
She made as if to spring up from the bed, and Saxby hastily stepped back. His bald head knocked upon something dangling. He looked up and saw a rope hanging from a rafter. It was thrown loosely over the palm rib, and it had a running noose at the lower end. A box stood below, slightly to one side.
Saxby stared at the rope, and then at the girl. His mouth opened. He was shocked out of his discretion.
‘But you didn’t mean – ’ Saxby said. ‘It’s too – ’
The girl sat motionless, staring at him. She did not blink an eye, and Saxby faltered into silence. They gazed at each other, shocked. It was as though a mutual discovery, flashing through the air, had turned it into a heavy medium in which neither could move.
Suddenly the girl’s face twisted, her eyes turned aside, and she said in a faint voice, ‘I was just putting up – ’ She looked round, as if for inspiration. Saxby found one before he realized it. ‘Oh, yes, very convenient – hang things up.’
‘The lamp,’ she said.
‘Yes, of course – the lamp,’ and his face relaxed. He put a hand to his forehead.
‘Hullo,’ said a voice outside. ‘It’s Bing.’
The girl sprang up. She and Saxby together grabbed at the rope. Saxby’s long arm reached it, tore it down and jerked it behind his back. He heard the girl’s voice in his ear, full of contemptuous rage: ‘No one can stop me. I’ll do what I like.’
Bing was already in the doorway. The girl sank back suddenly on the box.
‘Hullo.’ Bing stared at her suspiciously. ‘Got your orders?’
‘Not from me,’ Saxby exclaimed hastily. ‘I’m not taking the responsibility.’
‘I’m not going,’ the girl said.
‘What do you mean, responsibility?’ Bing glared at Saxby.
‘The patient must be consulted.’
‘The patient,’ Bing snapped. ‘But all that is decided. What do you think service regulations are for?’ His tone might have referred to Holy Writ. ‘I suppose it means nothing to you, miss, where your baby is born, but it’s my duty to see that you don’t have it in a place already scheduled as unfit for babies.’
‘Nothing to me?’ she looked at him in amazement and rage. Then suddenly her expression changed in a manner very surprising to both the men. It was as though something had escaped from behind the girl’s hard, furious mask, by eyes and lips and even cheeks, so that the eyes looked beyond Bing and the rest-house wall, the compressed lips softened and stood open, the cheeks were coloured with life. ‘Mine,’ she said.
Saxby, as well as Bing, stared uncomprehendingly while the g
irl’s colour deepened, her lips trembled, and her eyes, a moment before as hard as agate, sparkled with tears. Suddenly she made that gesture, common in the pregnant woman, as if to clasp her womb between her hands.’ Oh, how wicked I have been – how ungrateful.’
‘Now, now,’ Bing said sharply. ‘No hysterics. Please control yourself, and answer my question. Do you understand that you must go home? Do you understand the nature of an order, a Government order?’
Saxby, still perspiring, terrified of Bing’s roughness, said hastily in a cajoling voice, ‘You see, Miss – ah – in Major Bing’s view, you are to a certain extent, in Government charge.’
The girl gazed at him as if through a window at a new discovered sky. ‘Yes, yes, in Government charge – of course, I’ll do anything.’
Suddenly she caught Bing’s hand and kissed it. ‘God sent you to me.’
Robert Graves
THE LOST CHINESE
JAUME GELABERT was a heavily-built, ill-kempt, morose Majorcan lad of seventeen. His father had died in 1936 at the siege of Madrid, but on the losing side, and therefore without glory or a dependant’s pension; his mother a few years later. He lived by himself in a dilapidated cottage near our village of Muleta, where he cultivated a few olive terraces and a lemon grove. On my way down for a swim from the rocks, three hundred feet below, I would cut through Jaume’s land and, if we happened to meet, always offered him an American cigarette. He would then ask if I were taking a bathe, to which I answered either: ‘You have divined my motive correctly,’ or: ‘Yes, doctors say it benefits the health.’ Once I casually remarked that my blue jeans had grown too tight and, rather than throw them away, I wondered if they might come in handy for rough work.’ I could perhaps use them,’ he answered, fingering the solid denim. To say ‘thank you’ would have been to accept charity and endanger our relationship; but next day he gave me a basket of cherries, with the excuse that his tree was loaded and that June cherries were not worth marketing. So we became good neighbours.
The Second Penguin Book of English Short Stories Page 20
