The Empire Trilogy (131 page)

Walter surveyed his family and guests sullenly, as if somehow they had been responsible for this lamentable state of affairs. They gazed back, as if hypnotized. Only Monty, who had doubtless heard all this before, twiddled his fork and smothered a yawn.

‘What I would like to know is this: can one really blame the Japanese?' enquired Walter. His guests exchanged puzzled glances, as if to say: ‘Of course one can blame the Japanese. Why ever not?'

‘After all, they too are fighting for their lives. They depended so heavily for their survival on silk and cotton that, naturally, they would do whatever they had to in order to sell them. In 1933 the average Japanese price for textiles was ten cents a yard while Lancashire's was eighteen or nineteen cents, almost twice the price! Mind you, the Japs got up to every trick in the book to evade the quotas. For example, since cotton piece-goods were not included in the quotas in no time pillow-cases big enough to put a house in began to arrive here in Singapore … pyjamas to fit elephants … shirts that twenty people could have got into … and all designed to be swiftly unstitched and used by our local manufacturers instead of the Lancashire cotton they were supposed to be using. Frankly, I admire their ingenuity. Can you blame them?'

‘Business is all very well, Mr Blackett,' said the General rather brusquely. ‘But you surely do not mean to condone the way they grabbed Manchuria and invaded China. Your own firm's business must have suffered as a result of the way the Japs have been closing the Open Door.'

Walter nodded and smiled. ‘That's true. We have suffered. But look at it from the Japanese point of view. Can you blame them for extending their influence into Manchuria and China? After all, the demands they have been making since 1915 … for the lease of Port Arthur and Dairen, for the South Manchuria and Antung-Mukden Railways and for the employment of Japanese capital in Manchuria and Eastern Inner Mongolia, what do they remind you of?' Walter, smiling now, gazed at his baffled guests. ‘I can tell you what they remind
me
of! They are an excellent imitation of the sort of economic imperialism through demands for special privileges which Britain herself has been making in Asia since … well, since this young man's father started our business in the 1880s.'

‘But was that a reason for Japan to invade China?' the General wanted to know.

Walter shook his head. ‘As a businessman I understand very well why the Japanese had to invade China in 1937. China, from the point of view of trade and investment, was chaotic. No reasonably hard-boiled businessman looking at Nationalist China would have seen much to give him confidence. The Kuomintang wanted to put an end to foreigners' privileges. They wanted to see the foreign concession areas at Shanghai, Tientsin and so on handed back to China. They wanted to stop foreigners having their own courts and raising their own taxes in China. No, business must go on, whatever the price. And a businessman needs security. So can one blame the Japanese?'

‘Security for business doesn't give people the right to invade and kill their neighbours!' protested Matthew.

‘My dear chap, I couldn't agree with you more. But there comes a point where the justice of the matter becomes irrelevant. You must look at the situation from the Japanese point of view. For them it was a matter of life and death because while the Kuomintang was putting their investment in China at risk they were faced at home by the disastrous effects of the slump. In 1929, forty per cent of Japan's total export trade was in raw silk. It only needed the collapse of American prosperity and a consequent plunge in the demand for silk to bring the Japanese economy to catastrophe. Raw silk exports were halved almost overnight. Sales of cotton and manufactured goods joined the slide! What were they expected to do? Sit at home and starve? Let's not be naïve, my boy. Justice is always bound to come a poor second to necessity. Strong nations survive. Weak nations go to the wall, that has always been the way of the world and always will be! The point is, can one blame them for taking matters into their own hands? From the business point of view they were in a pickle. And now, mind you, with their assets frozen and their difficulties in getting raw materials their pickle is going from bad to worse. I believe the Americans should give them the raw materials they need. Otherwise what can they do but grab them by force?' Noticing that the Commander-in-Chief was looking taken aback by this suggestion, Walter added tactfully: ‘Not that they'd get very far in this part of the world.'

‘The reason the Japs are so touchy and arrogant is that they eat too much fish,' said Brooke-Popham. ‘It's scientific. The iodine in their diet plays hell with their thyroids. They can't help themselves. So, no, I suppose one can't blame them.'

Now the last course had been placed on the table: a thoroughly satisfactory baked bread-pudding. Matthew, for his part, eyed it with concern, afraid that it might prove too unusual for the taste of Dupigny. He need not have worried, however, for Dupigny surprisingly proved to have a craving for it, ate two helpings liberally coated with bright yellow custard and even went so far as to ask for the ingredients. Mrs Blackett, mollified by his enthusiasm, gave them: stale bread, raisins, sugar, an egg, a little milk and a pinch of nutmeg.

‘Incredible,' murmured Dupigny, eyebrows raised politely.

Brooke-Popham's thoughts had wandered back to August 1914 again, recalled to France by Dupigny's presence. He chuckled inwardly at the thought of how primitive all their arrangements had been that first summer. He had carried a small, brand-new portmanteau full of gold everywhere he went, paying for everything out of it, from new flying-machines to spares, to chickens and wine for the HQ Mess. The hours he had spent guarding that portmanteau! Once he and Baring had driven into Paris in the Daimler and gone to Blériot's factory there to buy a new flying-machine. Then, later, they had bought new tyres and headlights for the Daimler. He had paid for them in gold to the astonishment of the chap in the shop. ‘The English are amazing!' he had said in French to Baring, who spoke the lingo. Yes, those were the days! Brooke-Popham folded his napkin, stifling a yawn, beckoned home now by the nodding palms of Katong and the Sea View Hotel. ‘Life is good,' he reflected.

The great dish of pudding had been removed. The meal was over. A large white pill and a glass of water had been set in front of Charlie, who had been eating doggedly with his mouth very near his plate and making no effort to join in the conversation. Since he had finished eating, however, he had been practising backhands with an invisible tennis racket over the tablecloth. In the process his wrist caught and knocked over a glass of water. There was a moment of startled silence.

‘I leave you to deal with him,' Walter said to his wife with unexpected anger, rising from his chair.

‘Oh, really, Uncle Charlie, what have you done now?' Kate said, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘And you haven't taken your pill.' The guests filed out in silence, leaving Charlie staring sulkily at the saturated table-cloth.

Matthew would have liked to retire to bed at this point: he had had a long and tiring day. But it seemed that the Blacketts had not yet finished with him for Monty suggested a quick stroll in the garden. Together they stepped out into the warm, perfumed night accompanied by a dull-eyed Joan, yawning again behind scarlet fingernails. Birds uttered low cries, insects clicked and whirred around them and once a great patch of black velvet swooped, slipped and folded against the starry sky. Some sort of fruit bat, said Joan.

Although flanked by the young Blacketts, Matthew found himself peering uneasily into the vibrating darkness: he was not yet accustomed to the tropical night. As they sauntered through the potentially hungry shadows in the direction of the Orchid Garden he tried to recall whether he had once read something about ‘flying snakes' or whether it was simply his imagination. And did fruit bats only eat fruit or did they sometimes enjoy a meal of flesh and blood? He was so absorbed in this speculation that when, presently, he felt something slip into his hand he jumped, thinking it might be a ‘flying snake'. But it was only Joan's soft fingers. To cover his embarrassment he asked her about fruit bats. Oh, they were perfectly harmless, she replied, despite their frightening, Dracula-like wings.

But, Monty was saying with a laugh, what did Matthew think about another weird creature, namely their Uncle Charlie? Did Matthew know that he had been a cricket Blue at Cambridge? For he had been, though one might not think so to look at him now.

‘Does he work for Blackett and Webb?'

Monty and Joan hooted with laughter at this idea. ‘Father wouldn't let him within a mile of the place. No, he's in the Indian Army, the Punjabis. That was OK while they were stuck on the Khyber Pass or wherever they normally spend their time. But then, disaster! Charlie's regiment gets posted to Malaya. Father can't abide him, as you may have gathered. He has to put up with him, though, because of Mother who insists on inviting him to stay whenever he has any leave. She's afraid he will go off the rails if she doesn't watch over him. She may be right at that. Once he spent a week in Penang and we kept getting telephone calls asking us if we were prepared to vouch for a Captain Charles Tyrrell who was running up bills right left and centre. Then he started tampering with someone else's wife and there was the most frightful palaver over that. Father had to go up and straighten it all out. You can imagine how delighted he was. Because, of course, we're well known in this country and gossip spreads like wildfire.'

‘Oh, and he's a poet, too,' said Joan, giving Matthew's perspiring hand a little squeeze.

‘That's right. He wrote a poem about a place in Spain …'

‘Guernica.'

‘Yes, that's it, about the place Joan just said. Mother had to warn us all not to laugh because he took it so seriously. He's quite a card.'

Matthew had only been able to give part of his attention to what he was being told about Charlie because of the sensations that were spreading up through his body from the hand which Joan was holding. Not content with the damp, inert clasp of two palms, Joan's fingers had become active, alternately squeezing his own and trying to burrow into the hollow of his palm. He could not help thinking: ‘If Monty weren't here …' and his heart pounded at the thought of what he and Joan might get up to. But Monty
was
there; and he showed no sign of noticing the delicious hand-squeezings that were going on in the darkness. Presently he said: ‘We'd better be going inside. They'll be leaving soon.' With a final squeeze Joan's hand abandoned Matthew's as they passed back into the light.

They found the elder Blacketts and their guests drinking coffee and brandy in the drawing-room. Relations between Walter and the unfortunate Charlie had evidently been somewhat restored while they had been in the garden for, as they entered, they heard the tail-end of an argument that had been taking place.

‘You expect young men being paid next to nothing to die defending your property and your commercial interests!' Charlie was asserting vociferously. He was still a little drunk but had tied his shoe-laces in the interim and his appearance was less dishevelled.

‘I don't know about dying,' replied Walter good-humouredly. ‘All you've done so far is drink.' And that proved to be the end of the discussion and of the evening, for the Air-Marshal and the General announced that it was time that they were on their way. They politely insisted on shaking hands with everybody on their way out, even with little Kate who, overcome by the momentous occasion, got mixed up and said: ‘Thank you for having me.' This caused smiles all round and poor Kate wished she were dead. How could she be so childish! She blushed furiously and tried to smile, too, though she really felt like bursting into tears.

‘You must come to our place one of these days,' muttered Dr Brownley to a semi-circle of glassy-eyed Blacketts who seemed to have gathered for no other purpose than to stare after him in mute accusation as he escaped into the darkness.

Dupigny suggested to Matthew that they walk back to the Mayfair by way of the road rather than the garden, to see if the Major had retired to his little bungalow on the opposite side of the road. Matthew said goodnight to the elder Blacketts. On the way out he found Monty and Joan on the steps by the front door. Monty held out his hand, saying that he was off to bed and would wish Matthew good night.

‘Monty, I'd like to thank you for your help in getting me out here.'

‘Think nothing of it, old boy. After all, we couldn't leave you to be raped by all those strapping Land Girls, could we?' And with a wave Monty disappeared inside.

After a moment Joan came forward. He thought she was going to say good night, too, but no. ‘Hello you!' she said, lighting up like a firefly in the darkness. He peered at her uncertainly. ‘You always look so serious,' she added, putting her shoulder against his and shoving him a little off balance.

‘Do I?' he asked cautiously.

‘Come on, I'll walk down the road a bit with you and François.'

They set off together down the drive but almost immediately Joan was called back by her mother who was standing at the front door. She wanted to know where Joan was going.

‘Oh Mother!' Joan said irritably.

‘Why can't you leave the girl alone?' Walter wanted to know, equally exasperated. A hurried conference took place.

While they were waiting for her Dupigny asked: ‘D'you like women?'

‘Well, yes, of course.' To Matthew this seemed a rather peculiar question. After a moment he added: ‘I'm rather keen on D. H. Lawrence, as a matter of fact.'

There was a pause while Dupigny turned this over in his mind. Presently he said: ‘Out here, you know, there are many young men but few young women … I mean, European. There are,
bien entendu
, the Asiatical women, ah yes, but in Singapore, you see, although the young men make terribly love in a physical way to the oriental ladies and sometimes even to the mature European ladies (those who have, as we say,
la cuisse hospitalière
), still, alas, they are not satisfied. They sigh for companions of their own age and race. They are encouraged, moreover, by their elders who wish to preserve the purity of the race, a desire of which Hitler himself would not disapprove. With us in Indo-China it is different. We do not worry like the British when one of us decides to marry the daughter of a prosperous native. Such marriages have very often a great utility, both commercial and political.'