65 Short Stories (55 page)

When she opened them it was broad daylight. She must have fallen asleep and, so shattered was she by emotion, have slept till long after dawn. It gave her quite a turn. She sought to rise, but something caught in her legs. She looked and found that she was covered with two empty copra sacks. Someone had come in the night and put them over her. Ginger Ted! She gave a little scream. The horrible thought flashed through her mind that he had outraged her in her sleep. No. It was impossible. And yet he had had her at his mercy. Defenceless. And he had spared her. She blushed furiously. She raised herself to her feet, feeling a little stiff, and arranged her disordered dress. The scalpel had fallen from her hand and she picked it up. She took the two copra sacks and emerged from her hiding-place. She walked towards the boat. It was floating in the shallow water of the lagoon.

‘Come on, Miss Jones,’ said Ginger Ted. ‘We’ve finished. I was just going to wake you up.’

She could not look at him, but she felt herself as red as a turkey cock. ‘Have a banana?’ he said.

Without a word she took it. She was very hungry, and ate it with relish. ‘Step on this rock and you’ll be able to get in without wetting your feet.’

Miss Jones felt as though she could sink into the ground with shame, but she did as he told her. He took hold of her arm-good heavens his hand was like an iron vice, never, never could she have struggled with him-and helped her into the launch. The mechanic started the engine and they slid out of the lagoon. In three hours they were at Baru.

That evening, having been officially released, Ginger Ted went to the ContrOleur’s house. He wore no longer the prison uniform but the ragged singlet and the khaki shorts in which he had been arrested. He had had his hair cut and it fitted his head now like a little curly red cap. He was thinner. He had lost his bloated flabbiness and looked younger and better. Mr Gruyter, a friendly grin on his round face, shook hands with him and asked him to sit down. The boy brought two bottles of beer.

‘I’m glad to see you hadn’t forgotten my invitation, Ginger,’ said the ContrOleur.

‘Not likely. I’ve been looking forward to this for six months.’

‘Here’s luck, Ginger Ted.’

‘Same to you, ContrOleur.’

They emptied their glasses and the ContrOleur clapped his hands. The boy brought two more bottles.

‘Well, you don’t bear me any malice for the sentence I gave you, I hope.’

‘No bloody fear. I was mad for a minute, but I got over it. I didn’t have half a bad time, you know. Nice lot of girls on that island, ContrOleur. You ought to give ’em a look over one of these days.’

‘You’re a bad lot, Ginger.’

‘Terrible.’

‘Good beer, isn’t it?’

‘Fine.’

let’s have some more.’

Ginger Ted’s remittance had been arriving every month and the ContrOleur now had fifty pounds for him. When the damage he had done to the Chinaman’s shop was paid for there would still be over thirty.

‘That’s quite a lot of money, Ginger. You ought to do something useful with it.’

‘I mean to,’ answered Ginger. ‘Spend it.’

The ContrOleur sighed.

‘Well, that’s what money’s for, I guess.’

The ContrOleur gave his guest the news. Not much had happened during the last six months. Time on the Alas Islands did not matter very much and the rest of the world did not matter at all.

‘Any wars anywhere?’ asked Ginger Ted.

‘No. Not that I’ve noticed. Harry Jervis found a pretty big pearl. He says he’s going to ask a thousand quid for it.’

‘I hope he gets it.’

‘And Charlie McCormack’s married.’

‘He always was a bit soft.’

Suddenly the boy appeared and said Mr Jones wished to know if he might come in. Before the ContrOleur could give an answer Mr Jones walked in.

‘I won’t detain you long,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of this good man all day and when I heard he was here I thought you wouldn’t mind my coming.’

‘How is Miss Jones?’ asked the ContrOleur politely. ‘None the worse for her night in the open, I trust.’

‘She’s naturally a bit shaken. She had a temperature and I’ve insisted on her going to bed, but I don’t think it’s serious.’

The two men had got up on the missionary’s entrance, and now the missionary went up to Ginger Ted and held out his hand.

‘I want to thank you. You did a great and noble thing. My sister is right, one should always look for the good in their fellow-men; I am afraid I misjudged you in the past; I beg your pardon.’

He spoke very solemnly. Ginger Ted looked at him with amazement. He had not been able to prevent the missionary taking his hand. He still held it ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘You had my sister at your mercy and you spared her. I thought you were all evil and I am ashamed. She was defenceless. She was in your power. You had pity on her. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Neither my sister nor I will ever forget. God bless and guard you always.’

Mr Jones’s voice shook a little and he turned his head away. He released Ginger Ted’s hand and strode quickly to the door. Ginger Ted watched him with a blank face.

‘What the blazes does he mean?’ he asked.

The ContrOleur laughed. He tried to control himself, but the more he did the more he laughed. He shook and you saw the folds of his fat belly ripple under the sarong. He leaned back in his long chair and rolled from side to side. He did not laugh only with his face, he laughed with his whole body, and even the muscles of his podgy legs shook with mirth. He held his aching ribs. Ginger Ted looked at him frowning, and because he did not understand what the joke was he grew angry. He seized one of the empty beer bottles by the neck.

‘If you don’t stop laughing, I’ll break your bloody head open,’ he said.

The ContrOleur mopped his face. He swallowed a mouthful of beer. He sighed and groaned because his sides were hurting him.

‘He’s thanking you for having respected the virtue of Miss Jones,’ he spluttered at last

‘Me?’ cried Ginger Ted.

The thought took quite a long time to travel through his head, but when at last he got it he flew into a violent rage. There flowed from his mouth such a stream of blasphemous obscenities as would have startled a marine.

‘That old cow,’ he finished. ‘What does he take me for?’

‘You have the reputation of being rather hot stuff with the girls, Ginger,’ giggled the little ContrOleur.

‘I wouldn’t touch her with the fag-end of a barge-pole. It never entered my head. The nerve. I’ll wring his blasted neck. Look here, give me my money, I’m going to get drunk.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ said the ContrOleur.

‘That old cow,’ repeated Ginger Ted. ‘That old cow’

He was shocked and outraged. The suggestion really shattered his sense of decency.

The ContrOleur had the money at hand and having got Ginger Ted to sign the necessary papers gave it to him.

‘Go and get drunk, Ginger Ted,’ he said, ‘but I warn you, if you get into mischief it’ll be twelve months next time.’

‘I shan’t get into mischief,’ said Ginger Ted sombrely. He was suffering from a sense of injury. ‘It’s an insult,’ he shouted at the ContrOleur. ‘That’s what it is, it’s a bloody insult’

He lurched out of the house, and as he went he muttered to himself: ‘Dirty swine, dirty swine.’ Ginger Ted remained drunk for a week. Mr Jones went to see the ContrOleur again.

‘I’m very sorry to hear that poor fellow has taken up his evil course again,’ he said. ‘My sister and I are dreadfully disappointed. I’m afraid it wasn’t very wise to give him so much money at once.’

‘It was his own money. I had no right to keep it back.’

‘Not a legal right, perhaps, but surely a moral right.’

He told the ContrOleur the story of that fearful night on the island. With her feminine instinct, Miss Jones had realized that the man, inflamed with lust, was determined to take advantage of her, and, resolved to defend herself to the last, had armed herself with a scalpel. He told the ContrOleur how she had prayed and wept and how she had hidden herself Her agony was indescribable, and she knew that she could never have survived the shame. She rocked to and fro and every moment she thought he was coming. And there was no help anywhere and at last she had fallen asleep; she was tired out, poor thing, she had undergone more than any human being could stand, and then when she awoke she found that he had covered her with copra sacks. He had found her asleep, and surely it was her innocence, her very helplessness that had moved him, he hadn’t the heart to touch her; he covered her gently with two copra sacks and crept silently away.

‘It shows you that deep down in him there is something sterling. My sister feels it’s our duty to save him. We must do something for him.’

‘Well, in your place I wouldn’t try till he’s got through all his money,’ said the ContrOleur, ‘and then if he’s not in jail you can do what you like.’

But Ginger Ted didn’t want to be saved. About a fortnight after his release from prison he was sitting on a stool outside a Chinaman’s shop looking vacantly down the street when he saw Miss Jones coming along. He stared at her for a minute and once more amazement seized him. He muttered to himself and there can be little doubt that his mutterings were disrespectful. But then he noticed that Miss Jones had seen him and he quickly turned his head away; he was conscious, notwithstanding, that she was looking at him. She was walking briskly, but she sensibly diminished her pace as she approached him. He thought she was going to stop and speak to him. He got up quickly and went into the shop. He did not venture to come out for at least five minutes. Half an hour later Mr Jones himself came along and he went straight up to Ginger Ted with outstretched hand.

‘How do you do, Mr Edward? My sister told me I should find you here.’ Ginger Ted gave him a surly look and did not take the proffered hand. He made no answer.

‘We’d be so very glad if you’d come to dinner with us next Sunday. My sister’s a capital cook and she’ll make you a real Australian dinner.’

‘Go to hell,’ said Ginger Ted.

‘That’s not very gracious,’ said the missionary, but with a little laugh to show that he was not affronted. ‘You go and see the ContrOleur from time to time, why shouldn’t you come and see us? It’s pleasant to talk to white people now and then. Won’t you let bygones be bygones? I can assure you of a very cordial welcome.’

‘I haven’t got clothes fit to go out in,’ said Ginger Ted sulkily.

‘Oh, never mind about that. Come as you are.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Why not? You must have a reason.’

Ginger Ted was a blunt man. He had no hesitation in saying what we should all like to when we receive unwelcome invitations. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘I’m sorry. My sister will be very disappointed.’

Mr Jones, determined to show that he was not in the least offended, gave him a breezy nod and walked on. Forty-eight hours later there mysteriously arrived at the house in which Ginger Ted lodged a parcel containing a suit of ducks, a tennis shirt, a pair of socks, and some shoes. He was unaccustomed to receiving presents and next time he saw the ContrOleur asked him if it was he who had sent the things.

‘Not on your life,’ replied the ContrOleur. ‘I’m perfectly indifferent to the state of your wardrobe.’

‘Well, then, who the hell can have?’

‘Search me.’

It was necessary from time to time for Miss Jones to see Mr Gruyter on business and shortly after this she came to see him one morning in his office. She was a capable woman and though she generally wanted him to do something he had no mind to, she did not waste his time. He was a little surprised then to discover that she had come on a very trivial errand. When he told her that he could not take cognizance of the matter in question, she did not as was her habit try to convince him, but accepted his refusal as definite. She got up to go and then as though it were an afterthought said:

‘Oh, Mr Gruyter, my brother is very anxious that we should have the man they call Ginger Ted to supper with us and I’ve written him a little note inviting him for the day after tomorrow. I think he’s rather shy, and I wonder if you’d come with him.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘My brother feels that we ought to do something for the poor fellow’

‘A woman’s influence and all that sort of thing,’ said the ContrOleur demurely. Will you persuade him to come? I’m sure he will if you make a point of it, and when he knows the way he’ll come again. It seems such a pity to let a young man like that go to pieces altogether.’

The ContrOleur looked up at her. She was several inches taller than he. He thought her very unattractive. She reminded him strangely of wet linen hung on a clothes-line to dry. His eyes twinkled, but he kept a straight face.