Seventeen
When Lucy opened her eyes again she was in a car, but it was not Deborah’s comfortable red station wagon. It was a small elderly green vehicle with hard sticky seats and Meng was at the wheel.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Welcome back.’
‘What’s happening? Where’s Deborah?’ To her own ears, her voice sounded peculiarly weak and strained.
‘Well, you see, you passed out and I offered to take you to the doctor because I know the way to the nearest surgery and Deborah doesn’t.’
‘Oh.’
‘Anyway, the digging had more or less ended for today so I was free, but Deborah still hadn’t finished showing Alex around.’
‘Oh.’
‘But she made me promise to ring her to tell her how you were as soon as possible.’
With a great effort, Lucy finally managed to express herself. ‘I feel fine, honestly. Just the heat. I don’t need to go to the doctor. Please don’t take me. I hate doctors. I’ll be fine at home. Can you drop me somewhere I can get a taxi?’
‘My house is near here. You can rest there until the evening. Then we won’t get stuck in a hot traffic jam.’
‘I’d rather go home,’ murmured Lucy faintly. It really was too bad of Deborah to dump her with this man.
‘My maid will look after you – we’ll soon be there.’
She had no further strength to protest, and stared out of the window at the suburban maze of houses. She had no idea where she was.
Meng turned down one unmade lane after another, all exactly the same, it seemed. Eventually he stopped the car beside a high concrete wall and unlocked a solid iron gate. Once inside this unpromising boundary, she saw a traditional wooden house with a small well-kept garden. She was slightly reassured. If he lives in such a sweet little villa, he must be all right, she said to herself.
Meng was obliged to help her out of the car and up the steps on to the verandah. Supporting her with one arm, he pushed open the fly screen and unlocked the front door calling loudly for the maid. There was no reply.
‘She must be out,’ he said in a worried tone. ‘Stupid old woman, I told her I’d be home for lunch.’
‘I’m not hungry. Can I just have some water?’ Lucy sat down suddenly on a rattan day bed with a pale blue cover.
When he had gone in search of refreshments, she looked around. The shutters were drawn against the heat, but she could see clearly that the room was full of treasures, like an antique shop but not as well organized. Every surface was covered in objects d’art, pottery, porcelain, bronze, jade and ivory statuettes and carved animal figures. No wonder the maid had taken the morning off – she was probably exhausted from trying to dust all the items. Lucy was always interested in domestic problems. Meng returned with a jug of fresh lime juice and some biscuits on a tray. With elaborate care, he placed them on a small lacquer table beside her and then announced that he was going out to look for the errant servant. After drinking two glasses of juice, Lucy began to feel better. The ceiling fan rotated above her. She closed her eyes, listening to the whining whirring noise it made.
She didn’t know how much time had passed when she next heard Meng’s voice. ‘Aha, the sleeping beauty.’
She sat up quickly, straightening her skirt.
‘I’m sorry, but old Bin has disappeared entirely – she is somewhat unreliable,’ he said.
‘I think I’d better go home. My husband will be worried.’ This was untrue as she was not expected back until the evening. She stood up but was obliged to sit down again.
‘See, you are still unwell.’ He smiled at her, crinkling his fine black eyes. ‘You are not nervous about being here alone with me, are you?’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘You needn’t be concerned about me. I am no threat to women. You see, I am celibate.’
‘Oh,’ faltered Lucy.
‘Yes, you know it is normal for a Buddhist to spend a while as a monk. Well, I decided that monastic life was not for me, even for a short time. So I made a vow to renounce as many earthly desires as possible. I couldn’t live without my art treasures, so I renounced both love and meat.’
‘Oh.’
‘Actually, my sex drive was never strong and I found it easier to give up pleasures of the human flesh than to become a vegetarian. Interesting that the phrase “pleasures of the flesh” should encompass so many earthly desires, isn’t it?’
Lucy was not sure what he meant. His conversation was far too frank for her taste, but his manner was serious and entirely unflirtatious. She must have imagined the admiring looks he had thrown her way when they first met. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help being aware of the fact that he was a very good-looking man.
She decided to change the subject. ‘I love your house,’ she said.
‘Thank you. I’ll show you round later when you feel better.’
‘This room is so pretty and so interesting. All these ornaments and books – and I like that wall of photographs. Are they pictures of sites where you did your digging? Did you take any of them?’
‘All of them. Photography is one of my hobbies. Let me show you my albums. You can look at them while I go and find you something to eat.’ He went to a pile of black portfolios in the corner and selected four. He placed them on the table beside her and went out of the room.
Each contained some fifty large black and white prints. She admired the set of archaeological views, then some scenes of village life, followed by a set of sea pictures. In the last folder she found portraits of several different oriental women, all young, all beautiful. Lucy studied them, envying their hair and their skin. Then she put the folder down quickly for the remainder of the shots were male and female nudes, or part nudes of buttocks and breasts, artistically photographed in discreet non-pornographic poses, but still quite naked.
When he returned with a tray of small sweet cakes, she made polite remarks about his photography, concentrating on the landscapes. She did not mention the nudes as he’d probably given them to her by mistake, but to be on the safe side, she decided it best to change the conversation again, this time to a subject that had been on her mind for some time.
‘Do your coolies at the dig come from that village you took me and Deborah to when we first met you?’ she asked.
‘Some of them do. Why?’
‘Oh, well, I just, er, was interested in the statue of Queen Victoria. You know the way the village people sort of worship the statue and the spirits and stuff.’
‘Yes, Lucy, you’re right. These villagers and their customs and animist beliefs are fascinating. I think that if I hadn’t been an archaeologist I should like to have studied anthropology. But of course that involves leading an even more uncomfortable life than my own because most primitive tribes worth studying live in the middle of the jungle or up some grim mountain. Easily accessible people like the villagers you met have already been the subject of at least two books, one in French and one in English. Would you like to borrow one?’
‘Uh, is it very scholarly?’
He smiled. ‘Perhaps a bit heavy. Pity really, because one could make a book of quite readable tales. They’re so amusing, those peasants. They are frightened of so many things and so much of their life is spent propitiating the spirits. Did you know that the village elders are afraid of the water spirits and have refused to allow bamboo aqueducts to be constructed, even though they were offered aid to pay for them? So the young women still have to fetch water every day, and it’s forbidden to bring it inside the house. All the cooking has to be done outdoors, and those villagers who are not afraid to bathe always use exterior wash-huts.’
‘D’you mean to say some of them are really afraid of water?’
‘Yes, that’s why the older ones smell a bit.’
Lucy laughed. ‘What about the Spirit Woman? Does she wash?’
‘Sometimes, when the moon is full or the auspices are good. But she is not afraid of the spirits for she uses them to make her lotions a
nd potions.’
‘What sort of potions?’ Lucy tried to make her voice sound casual.
‘Well, she has many kinds, all made from herbs and mysterious juices from trees. She has potions for diarrhoea, constipation and skin rashes. In fact, to cure your heat exhaustion just now, I added one of her medicines to the lime juice.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’ Lucy was faintly annoyed, though she had always been interested in herbal remedies.
‘But it worked, didn’t it? You look much better.’
‘So have you got any other spirit medicines?’
‘Yes, I bought a sample of a dozen or so. I thought I might get a friend to analyse them. All in the cause of scientific research, you know.’
‘Oh.’ Lucy let him chat on for a while, then she said, ‘Have you got any to spare? I could pay you.’
He smiled. ‘Any what?’
‘Er, potions from the Spirit Woman.’
‘What kind would you like?’
‘Well . . .’ She stopped, unable to bring herself to say any more.
‘Let me guess. You look pretty healthy. I don’t think it can be an ailment. And it can’t be a love potion because I am sure you are loved. I think a young married woman like you might be interested in fertility.’
Lucy blushed deeply.
‘Am I right?’
She nodded.
‘I saw you give money to the Spirit Woman and I always have the right instincts about women’s problems. I think if I hadn’t been an archaeologist, I should have been a gynaecologist.’
‘But I thought you just said an anthro-something.’
‘Yes, I am a man of many interests.’ He smiled. ‘It so happens I do have a sample of the fertility potion which I will happily give you, but maybe you would prefer to consult the Spirit Woman directly. That would be best.’
Lucy said she could never be brave enough to do such a thing. Suddenly she found she couldn’t stop talking. It was a great relief to be able to discuss her problem with somebody. Meng was extraordinarily understanding for a man. He said it was not unusual for conception to be delayed a few months, even a year or so. She mustn’t worry. The Spirit Woman would tell her that it was obvious that the most auspicious time to conceive had not yet come for her. She would have a special child and one must wait for special children, for they were a gift from the gods.
He left the room and returned with a small blue phial. ‘I have just one dose remaining. I am told it is quite powerful. You must take it at the time of the month you feel particularly ready for love, just before you go to bed. Would you like something for your husband as well?’
Lucy smiled at the thought. ‘No, really, no. Er, how will I know when it is best to take it?’
‘I will have to leave that to your female instincts. If you have faith, you will know.’
The conversation turned to the islanders’ fertility rituals and to the spirits and their mysterious works. Entranced by Meng’s tales, it was with some shock that Lucy realized it was mid-afternoon. She asked to be taken home and to be dropped some distance from the Embassy as she did not want her maids to get the wrong impression.
Relieved that Somjit was not waiting for her, Lucy slipped in through the front door. She went straight to the study and hid the phial at the back of her desk drawer. Then she telephoned Deborah to ask her not to tell Martin she had fainted, so he wouldn’t worry.
‘It’s a relief you’re OK,’ said Deborah. ‘I was worried about you.’
Not that worried, thought Lucy. She said aloud, ‘Thank you, but next time we see you, don’t mention Meng, will you? Martin might not understand.’
‘OK. I felt bad about letting him take you to the doctor without me, but he insisted he could take care of you. I was going to follow in my car, but Alex was on the other side of the ruins and by the time I’d collected him you’d disappeared and then when I got home I phoned, but you weren’t back and . . .’
‘It’s all right. I was fine.’
‘But about Meng – he seemed a nice guy, gentle and kind. He didn’t get too friendly, did he?’
‘Oh, no. He’s not like that.’
‘Good, that’s what I thought. I knew you’d be OK with him. What was the matter with you anyway, Luce? You aren’t pregnant, are you?’
‘Oh, no. No way. It was just the heat.’
Eighteen
The private letters bag arrived on a Friday morning at the British Embassy. As usual, Lucy sat on the terrace before lunch waiting for Martin to return with her mail. She watched as he crossed the lawn, avoiding the sprinklers left to play all day by the languid gardeners. He looked tired and crumpled, and older than usual, but he smiled so happily when he caught sight of her that her heart jumped a little. She had been reading Woman’s World on the subject of marriage vows and had decided that most of the time her marriage was definitely for better rather than for worse. Worse: she was not pregnant and had still not discussed the fact with him. Better, no, best: he seemed to love her more and more.
She kissed him rapidly. ‘Any letters?’
‘More interested in the mail than in your husband, aren’t you?’
‘Today, yes,’ said Lucy. This was their little Friday joke.
She sifted through the letters looking for her mother’s spidery handwriting, but there was nothing from her, nor from matron. She opened the most interesting envelope, the one with a round girlish scrawl she vaguely recognized, and began to read.
‘Martin, guess what? I’ve had a letter from Porky Pritchard. She says her husband Jazzer wants to come and stay.’
‘Oh, when?’ Martin never sounded particularly enthusiastic about her friends. ‘Quite soon, in three weeks’ time. She said she would’ve emailed but didn’t know my address.’
‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘I’ll be rather busy around then liaising on the bus contract. That is to say, matters should be coming to fruition.’
‘What contract?’
‘The contract to supply new local buses. I told you it was coming up – the Embassy is keen that British Coachworks should win rather than the Japanese. In fact, we’ve even got a Minister coming out from London to wave the flag. But you won’t be involved so I suppose it’s all right to have a guest. You can look after this Jazzer person yourself.’
‘Funnily enough, Porky mentions something about buses and her husband is an MP, you know.’
‘Really? What sort of an MP? Tory, Labour, Raving Loony Workers for Freedom?’
Lucy smiled. ‘Conservative toff.’
‘I can’t think of anyone called Pritchard.’
‘That’s her maiden name, sorry. I always call her that because we were at school together. Jazzer, her husband, is James Jamison-Smith. I don’t suppose he’s at all important, but maybe you’ve heard of him.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘My God, of course I’ve heard of him, Lucy, he’s the bloody Minister of Export Trade, the one we’re expecting. But he’s a VIP – he’ll be staying with the Ambassador.’
‘Oh, yes, Porky put some sort of PS about that. Let me read it. This is what she says: “Jazzer doesn’t want to stay with the Ambo because he is a boring old fart married to a vicious old tart.” Quite a poem, but a bit strong, don’t you think?’
‘For God’s sake, Lucy, keep your voice down.’ Martin was trying not to laugh.
‘I’m only reading out what Porky says.’
‘Nevertheless, it is practically lèse-majesté.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means treasonable talk. Good God, does she really say that?’ Martin began to laugh so loudly that his face, even his ears, turned quite red. Finally he said, ‘Anyway, I am sure Helena won’t approve of his staying here.’
‘Apparently his office is going to send the Ambassador an email saying that Jazzer has made up his mind to stay with us and that’s that.’
‘Then it seems we have no choice. Hope you’ll be able to cope with a ministerial guest, Lulu.’
Sh
e smiled. ‘Well, it’s only Jazzer. He’s small and fat, if I remember rightly – bit like Porky herself.’
‘He may be Jazzer to you, but to the rest of us he’s a major VIP and we have to treat him accordingly.’
‘I expect I’ll manage.’
Last month Woman’s World had had a feature on confidence building and she was trying to follow the advice given.
She received the expected summons to the Residence later that afternoon. Helena was pacing angrily around the terrace, shouting at the servants about a pot plant that had been incorrectly watered. As soon as she saw Lucy, she stopped berating the maids mid-sentence and turned her fire.
‘Lucy, I don’t think it is at all suitable for a Minister of State to stay at a Counsellor’s house.’
‘No, well, er, perhaps not, but . . .’
‘The Ambassador tells me he has received rather a peremptory message on the subject stating that Mr Jamison-Smith wishes to be your guest.’
‘Well, his wife—’
‘I am afraid that I do not regard it as a point in your favour that the Minister has disregarded protocol. However, it would appear that there is little one can do about it. I think I had better come over to your house just before the Minister arrives and check that the arrangements you have made are in order. It will reflect badly on the whole Embassy if everything is not as it should be.’
‘That really won’t be necessary,’ said Lucy, stung into some sort of response at last. She paused in shock at her own daringly defiant remark. ‘Jazzer, I mean, James is quite an informal person.’
Helena sniffed and ran her hands through her damp black hair revealing that the roots needed retouching. ‘Obviously he must be.’ She gave Lucy another severe look. ‘I do feel you should call him Minister rather than Jazzer.’
Tropical Connections Page 13
