The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy (75 page)

‘I looked in on them at curfew and they were going full blast. Like savages. Throwing up everywhere. You never saw such a night.'

‘Ah, well, Ron, brutal and licentious soldiery … as Shakespeare has it, “Not once or twice in our fair island story Has the road to ruin proved the path to glory.”' I thought that was fairly bright for a man in the throes of terminal syphilis, but Dyer ploughed on unmoved, shaking ash into the remains of marmalade on his plate.

‘At two in the morning you could hear their gramophone still going. They debagged Corporal Kyle, so I heard. Raving drunk. Bad soldiering. There will be some thick heads round there this morning.'

I poured myself another cup of coffee. Undrinkable, if truth be told.

‘Good news about that cunt Kyle, anyway.' I had completely forgotten the
BORS
' party. Happy though I was to have missed total immersion in
crème de menthe
, appearing to snub the Other Ranks was just one more thing to feel bad about. I rose from the table, nodded to the
RSM
, and clapped Ron Dyer on his bare shoulder as I went by.

‘Cheero, Ron, see you in the bar of the Regent Palace some time. Merdeka!'

Outside the mess, three swart members of the Indian Pioneer Corps were pulling planks and tarpaulins about, trying to repair the cover of the cesspit. Their sluggish movements suggested that they were not optimistic about the outcome.

Medan on a Sunday morning was quieter than usual. All the shops were shut. The Dutch, and such of the local population as had been converted to Protestantism, were at church singing European hymns to a European god. This
might be one of the chief cities of the new Indonesian Republic, but it chugged along still under the mores of a Netherlands provincial town. One of my watches said five to ten and the other nearly a quarter to eleven, so I reckoned it must be at least eleven-twenty. When I wound them both vigorously, I was making the loudest noise in the street.

My last days in Sumatra return vividly as I write, although they have been stored away forgotten for years. Yet I cannot remember any part of the way from our lines to the Kesawan, except for the railway crossing – a point of danger. Only an old faded photograph reminds me of what the de Boer club looked like. This must be because, whenever I walked that way, my head was pleasantly filled with thoughts of women; my surroundings scarcely registered. Which suggests a new reason why people recall the days of their childhood so clearly: childhood is the only time of life when one's brain is not preoccupied with hopes, regrets, recollections, lecherous anticipations, of the other sex …

Naturally, the story of Katie's adventures was stuffed with lies. All those rape fantasies, for instance. She gloried in sex. I asked her where she acquired her knowledge of the art of love; she replied that it all came from the Spanish nun. That could have been said in order to titillate me. You would never get to the bottom of all the mysteries about Katie Chae.

Tomorrow, my flight to Singapore. There I would have to hang about in Nee Soon Transit Camp until the old
Otranto
arrived for the voyage home – which could mean a wait of up to a fortnight. Would Katie come over and visit me for that period if I paid her? We could probably get a room in Nee Soon village; there were some quite striking houses where the Arabs sold rugs and pouffes. I had plenty of back-pay. But how many cigarettes would it take?

What a swine I was to even think of such a thing! Above all – first – I must get things straight with Margey.

In the Chinese quarter, the Ambonese were taking over the pavement, strolling and stretching and calling to each other. Big amiable black men sat at the open windows of
their billet, tuning guitars or cleaning machine-guns. Christ, Amboina must be some place! Shite-hawks swooped above the street, hoping that the guns would go off. On the corner of Bootha Street, the restaurant was open and doing no business. Two waiters lolled outside, smoking; we exchanged greetings.

I made an effort to quicken my pace.

The signs of mourning were still on Margey's weather-beaten door. The exotic characters had curled up in the sun like flabby hedgehogs. An overnight rainstorm had caused the red dye of the paper to run down the door, where it resembled the blood of a leukaemia victim. The white flowers had died and were infested with small flies.

A paper casket stood on the table in the middle of the room, surrounded by fresh flowers. It was an emblem of the real coffin, now decently buried: the processes of corruption are fast on the equator – maggots burst out of eyes not closed twenty-four hours since. Several old people, with the wrinkled walnut faces age etches on the Chinese, were shuffling round the room. The Brastagi relations, no doubt.

Inevitably, boring old Fat was there, sitting in one corner smoking watchfully on a bamboo chair tipped back against the wall. He called to me, beckoning with a languid paw.

‘Ha, so, Missa Stuss, you so kine come bag this house 'gain after rong ti'. I no 'spec' you come bag this house any more ti' – you go fry bag Ingrant.' He made plane noises and zoomed his hand around to help convey his meaning. I didn't think much of the standard of imitation.

All the same, he deflected me enough to try and solve a minor mystery. I asked Fat how it was that Tiger Balm, Katie Chae's brother, came here when Margey so hated Katie Chae. As far as I could understand his answer, the Tiger Balms of this world were lofty pillars of the local Chinese community, while the Hwan Fat Sians of this world were lowly worms. The Tiger Balms had established the Hwans in accommodation in their hour of need. Money also changed hands – but from whom to whom, and exactly why, or how earned, I could not determine.

Cutting short a rambling socio-economic survey in pidgin, I said, ‘Where's Margey, Fat? Upstairs?'

‘You priss no worry Margey.' He jerked his thumb towards the back yard. ‘Margey busy do prenty wor'.' He spoke feelingly, as if suffering from the same complaint.

Going moodily to the rear, I caught sight of Margey through the glass door. She was in her working pyjamas, bent double over an old bucket. Sunshine hit the wall behind her. As I pushed the door open, I saw that she was doing something vigorous with water – washing a pair of Fat's winter trousers or drowning a turkey were two possibilities that sprang to mind.

‘Hello, Margey!' Spoken rather coolly. This could be my last meeting with her, and I wished everything to be dignified and decent.

She looked up from the bucket, smiling and frowning as she straightened. I saw how small she was, how lost she would look on Number One Platform, Kings Cross. Or in the bar of the Regent Palace.

Then she flicked her head, scowled, and went back to the washing/drowning operations, turning her back on me. If anything, this response made me feel worse than the terminal syphilis did.

Entering the yard, I circled her in order to get a look at her face.

‘Missed you yesterday, Margey.'

Furious scrubbing was her answer.

‘You didn't tell me you were going to Brastagi, Margey.'

Savage scrubbing. The turkey was getting hell.

‘Stop that, Margey, and pay attention. I've got a present for you.' (I had brought along a tin of Euthymol tooth powder, a packet of frizette mixture, a jar of red currant jelly, a box of liquorice allsorts, a comb, and two tins of Portuguese sardines.)

Without ceasing operations, she said, ‘I no want your beastly present. You give to one your other girls.'

This was going to be tricky.

‘Sounds as if you had a bad time in Brastagi. I'm off if you won't speak to me properly.'

She gave a grunt. Her face was red with anger. Like a little fury, she whirled round, swinging the turkey/trousers above her head. I was trapped in a corner of the yard. As I instituted the first impulses of retreat, Margey struck me with the sopping object squarely across the head and shoulders. Caught off balance, I fell backwards and sprawled in the filthy yard. The bag with the presents broke, scattering goods across the flagstones.

Margey leapt upon me, still beating me with the lethal object and screaming as she did so. Water drops flew up into the air, sparkling as they dropped again.

‘Why I speak you properly, hog-pizzle? What you do deserve I speak you properly? You low thing, I go Brastagi only for family duty. First I watch for you like proper faithful China girl. You no come here yes'erday like you promise. Why you no come here like you promise? Aei-ya, you dirty disease soldier, you no care where Margey am, if I live or dead!'

Protecting my face with my arms, I struggled to my feet. She continued to beat me. By now I was drenched from head to foot, and the turkey hurt.

‘Pack it in, you stupid bitch! I'm soaked! I had to go crocodile-shooting. How did I know you were suddenly going to disappear? Why didn't you leave me a note – you're so bloody educated, aren't you?'

She stopped beating me as she gathered what I had said. We stood staring at each other, panting heavily. Even flecked with suds, she looked immaculate. Dirty water poured from my shoulders. I heard a scuffle behind me; Fat and the Brastagi relations were jostling for a good view of the quarrel. In fury, I grabbed up the jar of red currant jelly, which lay by my foot, and hurled it at Fat's face. Fortunately, I missed the window. The jar struck the stone wall and broke. Enormous wasps the size of carrots descended on the red chunks of goo as they hit the flagstones.

‘You call it crocodile-shooting now, hey, you man-pig? I
know what you get up direct moment my back is turn. You same like all men, no sense only for that stinking thing in your pants.' She kicked one of the tins of sardines flying. ‘Why you not have more respec', go and stick that – that hairy bloodsausage – up any dirty disease hole comes along, you foreign monster, pig, shit, pizzle, bumhole!'

She shook her head as she spat the words out. With a scream, she began to larrup me with the drowned object again. I grabbed it and wrenched it from her.

‘Cut out this bloody senseless useless yelling, for Christ's sake! What the hell are you going on about? I did go crocodile-shooting yesterday, and nearly got myself killed, while you were pissing about in Brastagi.'

Instead of showing any remorse, she jumped at me and grabbed back the drowned thing. There she stood, silent and dramatic, regarding me with haunted eyes, clutching her elbows as I had seen Ida Lupino do. She held the pose long enough to strike terror into my heart, ignoring the wasps which zoomed about us. Then she lifted an accusing finger and began on a new tack, speaking slowly at first.

‘I see, I understand all what you say, Horatio, you shit-sergeant. You go crocodile-shooting yes'erday. And that's why today in the bazaar Katie Chae wear new blue felt hat with matching silk ribbon, is it?' On the last words, her voice rose to a blood-curdling scream of triumph; even the onlookers flinched. She knew I was undone.

I was undone. Pointless to try and argue that there was, in fact, no casual connection between the crocodile-shoot and the hat-bestowal. After one or two false starts, during which I was screamed down, I tried the red-herring tactic of explaining that the hat in no way represented payment for services rendered, or at least had not been obtained originally as an object intended for presentation in exchange for services rendered, and indeed had been procured only with extreme reluctance by the accused, who had regarded himself as rooked at the time of the transaction and who, furthermore, had not, in his innocence, anticipated any services whatsoever being offered, never mind rendered; and
moreover who, had he had the wit to anticipate the full, generous, delicious and oft-repeated nature of those services, would probably have procured, not one, but half a dozen fucking blue felt hats.

‘Lying diseased dog-swine! Pizzle, shit!' She waved her fists above her head, stamping her foot at the same time. ‘How you think I feel? I just turn my back only one day, for duty go and fetch honoured relatives to this place of mourning and gloomy reverences, and you – you who say you love me, you swine-liar! – you at once go madly fucking and distributing hats to all biggest whores in Medan!'

‘What are you saying, you bitch? All? All?'

‘Not all but at least biggest – that Katie Chae. How many times I warn you about Katie Chae? Every day I tell you I hate that disease whore, I tell you stay away Katie Chae, no speak her, even. You smile like a puppy-dog, then direct moment my back is turn,
bish
, you in bed with her and stick that filthy prick of your up her dirty evil hole! Jesus God! Can't you understand, you fucking deprave Blighty soldier-murder-bastard, I no want touch you any more after you go lie with that whore!'

I pulled the drowned thing from her grasp – it was a garment of some totally inscrutable kind – and flung it into a pile of crap at the back of the yard.

‘Look, for God's sake, Margey, calm down, will you? And stop calling Katie Chae a whore, too, or I'll get angry. We met by chance, if you must know, so what we did wasn't whoring, okay? I'm sorry if you are upset but it wasn't planned and –'

‘No whoring! No whoring!' She screamed, shaking her head so that her hair swirled round her neat neck. ‘You say no whoring? What you think that Katie Chae is? How much she charge you, eh, how much?'

‘I'll bloody belt you in a minute. Don't talk to me about whoring,
Rosey
 –'

‘Why I no talk? Just why? When I ever make charge to you, Horatio? Maybe you like better deprave girl who charge high price, you scum-sergeant!'

‘You may just have noticed that I've come round this morning to see you, not Katie. Bloody good welcome you give me!'

‘I give you some good welcome. I hate her, I hate her!' She started slapping me with her hands. I caught her thin wrists. The feel of her made me more angry. I lifted her off the ground and swung her to and fro.

‘I don't know what Katie's done to you, but just don't take it out on me. Calm down, or I'll beat you.'