Paving the New Road (9 page)

“I’m Australian,” Rowland replied.

“Yes … it’s unfortunate.” Maugham sighed heavily. “I knew Peter Bothwell during the Great War.”

“I see. Was he working in intelligence?”

“I’m afraid that sort of information is classified, Mr. Negus.” He straightened, his lower lip jutting just beyond his moustache. “Although Gerry Haxton is no longer welcome in Britain, I am still an Englishman and His Majesty’s servant.”

Rowland sharpened to the aside. “Why is Haxton not welcome in England?”

“He was deported … for, I believe, an act that was described as ‘not buggery’ … Apparently he was undesirable, though there are many men who would disagree—which I suppose is what began his trouble in the first place.”

“Oh.” Rowland swigged his gin-sling in the awkward silence, wishing to God he had not asked.

Maugham smiled. “Gerry can be quite forward and, occasionally, indiscriminate with his attentions. He seems to have taken quite a
shine to Miss Greenway, but you really don’t need to worry. His interest could not be more platonic.”

“Right … thank you. But Miss Greenway is not … she can do as she pleases.”

“I see. It seems a pity.”

“Quite.”

When Rowland and Maugham returned to the Long Bar, the cocktails had done their work: Gerald Haxton was wearing Edna’s boa around his neck and Milton’s boutonnière behind his ear while belting out a French love song. Edna sat at the bar, laughing. Milton, who was not used to being upstaged in such a manner, watched uneasily.

“Rowly!” Clyde was clearly glad to see their return.

“Robbie,” Maugham corrected. “You will have to get used to your aliases if you hope to carry this off.”

“Yes … Robbie.” Clyde jerked his head towards Haxton. “It might be time to …”

“Gerry—I believe it’s high time we chuffed off to dinner, don’t you think?” Maugham spoke loudly over the din, with the stammer making a reappearance.

Gerald Haxton stopped singing, grinning affably. “Willy! Where did you and Mr. Negus get to? I was beginning to get rather jealous.”

“Dinner,” Rowland said tensely. “We should go to dinner. Would you gentlemen care to join us?”

“Au contraire,” Haxton insisted brightly. “You shall all join us! Come along.” He offered his arm to Edna and proceeded to lead them from the bar. “Have you enjoyed curry before, my dear? Raffles is famous for its tiffin curry. Traditionally eaten at luncheon, of course, but I’ll have a word. You really must try it … heats the blood …”

6

GOSSIP

THERE is an interesting extract from a letter from Mr. Cuthbert Wells, in Singapore, to his daughter in Adelaide, relating to the wedding of the popular Adelaide girl Miss Alison Thomas, now Mrs. Charles C. T. Sharp. Mr. Wells was in a quandary about the frocking, but he tackled the subject nobly. “I felt greatly honoured when Mrs. Thomas asked me if I would give Alison away at the wedding. I was up very early and down at the hotel at 7.15. Mrs. Thomas, Sharp, and a Mrs. Millar went off first to the cathedral at 7.30 a.m., and Alison and I followed in my car, the former looking very charming in silk georgette dress of a pinky dove grey color with a close-fitting little straw hat (cloche?) with a feather. Only the archdeacon, Graham White, was there beside ourselves, and the ceremony was soon smoothly over. We all—six of us — had a cheerful breakfast at Raffles Hotel, and I was at the office at 9 a.m., while the bridal couple caught the
Plancius
at 10 a.m. en route to Brastagi, Sumatra, for the honeymoon.

The Mail, 1932

R
owland lay on the chaise, laughing. He had abandoned his dinner jacket and his tie hung loosely around his neck. Edna sat on the rolled arm of the lounge trying to poke the feathers back into her boa. Clyde and Milton had also relinquished their jackets. The poet stood in the middle of the room singing French-sounding
nonsense in a quite remarkably accurate impersonation of Haxton. Clyde was drinking like a man trying hard to forget.

Dinner had been a mildly alarming affair. Raffles, it seemed, was accustomed to Haxton. The waiters and maître d’ barely reacted to the American’s extraordinary antics. While the occasional diner tittered disapprovingly, most seemed to consider it part of Raffles’ exotic charm, some form of spontaneous floor show.

Maugham had, in the presence of his companion, retreated into an aloof but dignified reserve. Haxton had compensated by becoming increasingly loud and flamboyant. Champagne had accompanied dinner, and by the end of the evening the American did not confine his flirting to Edna. Rowland and Milton were more amused than anything else, but Clyde reacted with noticeable panic and so became the focus of Haxton’s attentions.

“He was fun though, wasn’t he?” Edna said smiling.

“No.” Clyde was blunt.

“Oh, Clyde.” Edna reached over and patted his knee. “You mustn’t take him seriously. Gerry’s quite sweet beneath all that nonsense. He has lovely taste in gowns.”

“Just let the poor chap drink, Ed.” Rowland put his hands behind his head. “Clyde’s had rather a shock.”

“Do Mr. Maugham and Gerry actually live here?” Edna asked brightly.

“Some of the time, I believe,” Rowland replied. “Maugham has a villa in France. Apparently Haxton’s been deported from Britain for some sort of misbehaviour, but of course the French are more understanding …”

Edna shoved him playfully. Her mother had been French. “Mama always said the English were frightful hypocrites.”

“Can we please talk about something else?” Clyde begged tersely.

“Yes,” Milton agreed, taking an armchair opposite the chaise and looking directly at Rowland. “Why did Maugham whisk you away, for instance?”

Rowland’s brow rose. “He wanted to tell me about Bothwell, I suppose.”

“What about him?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Maugham hinted that Bothwell was in some form of intelligence work during the war.”

“Hinted?”

“Well, he didn’t say explicitly but I’m quite sure that’s what he meant. I suppose if Bothwell was working for the British Secret Service, it might be treason or some such thing to just come out and tell me.”

“But Maugham wrote a book.”

“Yes … perhaps I should read it.”

Milton sat back, playing with a peacock feather that had come loose from Edna’s boa and ended up in his collar. “It makes sense, though … Perhaps that’s why the Old Guard sent Bothwell on this caper in the first place. He’d spied before.”

“Maybe.”

“What about Wilfred?” Edna asked, sliding down to share the chaise with Rowland. “Do you think he was an agent too?”

Rowland laughed. The idea was ridiculous.

“He was going to do this if you didn’t,” Milton reminded him.

Rowland sat up. He pushed the hair back from his face. “You’re right, he was.”

“And he met Maugham during the war. Where exactly was Wilfred posted?”

Rowland shrugged. “France … Wil’s never spoken to me about the war. I wouldn’t have a clue what he actually did over there.”

Edna giggled. “Can you imagine what Wilfred would make of Gerald Haxton?”

Milton grunted. “He’d barely have noticed—the upper classes are full of chaps like Haxton.”

Rowland smiled. “I’ve known a few,” he admitted.

The oppressive humidity of the previous evening had dissipated in the deluge overnight, and so the morning was fresh, the air still warm but no longer cloying. With the first light of day, Edna had attempted to drag them all out of bed “to take in the sights”. Only Rowland could be persuaded to leave the superlative comfort of his bed, though he did so reluctantly. Fortunately, they were due back at the airport that morning and so Edna’s sightseeing would be necessarily limited to a walk on the beach before breakfast.

Although it was early, the paved boulevards of the European sector of the island were busy. Locals pushed carts, laden with produce or trinkets, along Beach Road. Bare-chested men in sarongs swept steps and paths while turbaned traders set up for the day’s business. Edna marvelled at the strength and endurance of the rickshaw pullers, who dragged white-suited businessmen at a run, negotiating a road shared with motor cars and bullock drays.

“It’s a shame we can’t stay longer, Rowly,” Edna said, as she paused to photograph the colonial splendour of the buildings which lined the thoroughfare.

Rowland smiled. “We can come back, Ed.” He held out his hand for hers. “Come on, we’d better return to Raffles.”

“Robbie!”

Rowland turned towards the voice.

Maugham and Haxton emerged from the teahouse behind them, dressed almost identically in pale suits and broad-brimmed straw hats. Rowland was mildly surprised to see Haxton. He had expected that the American would be somewhat unwell after his consumption the evening before.

Haxton kissed Edna’s hand and slapped Rowland heartily on the back. “Well, this is a lucky chance. I had expected I’d have to chase you to the airport.”

“Chase me? Why?”

“Willy wanted me to make sure you had this.” He handed Rowland an envelope.

Edna glanced at Rowland and coaxed Haxton away. “Gerry, you must let me take a picture of you … over here … in front of this palm tree.”

“What is this, Mr. Maugham?” Rowland asked, studying the envelope as Haxton moved out of earshot under Edna’s direction.

“A letter of introduction to an old acquaintance.” Again the stammer was barely noticeable.

“In Germany?”

“Yes.” Maugham started walking back towards Raffles, motioning for the Australian to follow. Rowland glanced back to see Edna arm in arm with Haxton at the window of some boutique. He fell into step beside the playwright.

“Peter Bothwell was staying with an old chum of his in Munich—Alois Richter. Of course, Richter has no idea what he was really doing in Germany.”

“I see.”

“All of Bothwell’s papers and whatnot are still at Richter’s villa … the address is on the envelope. The letter introduces a Mr. Robert Negus, a dear and trusted cousin of Bothwell’s widow. It gives you
the authority to take charge of the poor fellow’s personal effects and chattels, and return them to her.”

Rowland slipped the envelope into his inner breast pocket. It didn’t seem unreasonable, but he was uneasy.

“Alois Richter has already received a telegram informing him to expect you,” Maugham said, stopping to light a cigarette.

Rowland frowned. “Why didn’t Wil give me the letter himself, before I left Sydney?”

“I hadn’t written it then, I suppose. In any case, these instructions are from Senator Hardy, my boy.”

“Rowly, wait!” Edna caught up with them and unburdened a large parcel into Rowland’s arms. Haxton was just behind her and similarly laden with purchases.

The sculptress smiled triumphantly. “We found the most divine Indian fabric, Rowly … sari, I think they call it. Yards and yards of the most glorious, vibrant silk.”

Rowland glanced at his watch, charmed as he always was by Edna’s unbridled enthusiasm for small things. “We’d better hurry if we’re going to arrange for it to be sent back to Sydney.”

“Sydney? Oh no—it’s not for me, Rowly.” She turned to Haxton, who beamed from beneath his dark moustache. “Gerry just had to have it.”