Acts of Mutiny (29 page)

Infinitely relieved, he looked at her.

‘To avoid looking for me. But I have found you. It will be all right. I promise you. I say we shall be wonderful.’ She allowed another few moments to pass. ‘We were both frightened, weren’t we?’

He nodded.

‘And of course,’ she continued, ‘what else should we expect? But there is a blissful thing, darling, I think. That if it’s all right between us, and we aren’t afraid of each other; then when it gets rough … When it gets rough, I say, up ahead … Well then there’s no need for us to be afraid of anything they throw at us, is there?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No need at all.’

‘Good. We shall get through, darling. We shall.’

As the
Armorica
approached Ceylon, Robert and Penny became set apart from the circle of shipboard society, like a gemstone raised proud of its ring. More absorbed in one another with each passing minute, they hardly noticed Russell and Clodagh’s calculated snub when the shore plans for Colombo were discussed at the observation lounge bar. And, discovering that to spend the rest of the morning strolling back and forth along the shady port side of the promenade deck talking softly in murmurs and smiles was the occupation that came most naturally in the world, they were oblivious to the Madeleys’ pointed removal of their deck-chairs to some other station.

When they were apart, as they must be at meals, they were each dreamlike and rapt, seeking every few moments to find the other’s eyes across the dining-room; so that the studied coolness of their dining companions was entirely lost on them. Dilys Finch-Clark’s ‘It’s the openness that I mind, actually’ was a wasted barb. Cheryl’s ‘You’ve really gone and done it now, Bobby’ from behind his chair, elicited only another warm grin from Robert. He mistook the acid in her voice. Mary Garnery’s brusque cut of his greeting as she passed he put down to a slight deafness. He ate with relish, the sooner to be with Penny again. In the afternoon of the last day before Colombo they sat out in full view on the Verandah sun trap and paid not the slightest heed to the looks offered nor the shoulders turned. Jokes were even made in their hearing, about somehow ‘going native’, of all things.

Curiously, the one couple who did not shun them were the Piyadasas. But that was because of their own slightly precarious social position, despite their perfect English. Or was it that they could still not quite bring themselves to imagine the English behaving other than perfectly? For if she was anything, Robert reasoned, the
Armorica
was a floating showcase of all that. He did puzzle himself over the apparently naive friendship the couple continued to offer. At university he had had a friend from Pakistan, and remained confused about the precise nature of that relationship.

‘Darling. They’re just nice people who don’t leap to conclusions. Perhaps they’re the only nice people on board.’

‘Ah. You remember I promised to show you around when we got to Ceylon,’ Mrs Piyadasa said to Penny. ‘We’ll soon be home. You must both come. Maybe we could even go to Kandy. We’ll see to everything.’

One must steer very discreetly. Why, he almost wanted to apologise – apologise at the very least, though the matter of imperial occupation was far too large for that. As large as a subcontinent. But these were Penny’s friends. Robert cautiously allowed himself to be liked by them.

‘When I first came to England I was amazed to see poor people.’ Mrs Piyadasa had laughed. ‘I thought only we had them. Now of course I am used to it.’

They were watching a school of about five whales keeping pace, fifty yards off the starboard quarter. ‘There. Did you see that one breathe?’ Robert pointed. ‘And what exactly is Kandy?’ he asked, when they had all admired the plume of a genuine spout.

‘Kandy is the old city in the hills. It is right in the centre of the island.’

‘I see.’

Penny said, ‘It reminds me of that song Christopher always likes when it comes on
Uncle Mac.
Every Saturday morning,’ she explained. ‘So many children write in. They usually have it sometime during the programme. Christopher learnt it off by heart.’ She sang, in a low, self-conscious tone:

                      
The buzzin’ of the bees

                      
in the cigarette trees,

                      
the soda-water fountains;

                      
The lemonade springs

                      
and the bluebird sings

                      
in the big rock-candy mountain.

Everyone laughed. ‘Bravo,’ said Mr Piyadasa; then added, ‘Not quite all that. But it’s well worth a visit. Sculptures, dancing. There’s a wonderful lake, and of course the temple of the Buddha’s tooth. It’s our greatest relic, if you like.’

‘Oh, and elephants!’ his wife exclaimed. ‘Elephants galore! You’ll just love it. It’s all very beautiful. But in one day I shall see my children. How sad I feel for you, Penny, that you’re still parted from your boys. Mother always longs to have her sons by her, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes indeed,’ Penny said, thoughtfully.

Robert was checked. Hearing her sing he found himself not so enchanted as he should have been, for it located her firmly with her husband and the boys. It recalled nothing so much as BBC family life, as issued to a generation by the wireless, in its stifling values, its children’s hour, its housewives’ choice, its Uncle Mac with his bears at perennial sinister picnic in the woods. They had no real plans. Everything was in cursed abeyance, until Australia; and they would have to live with that.

Penny began to stroll aft with Mrs Piyadasa, leaving Robert to cherish the prospect of Kandy. They might find themselves alone there. He imagined a jewelled Eastern garden, set high, surrounded by rich jungle. Where, even if the child-flavour of sugar-sweet came to it from her lips, there would be an immediacy of life, and of love. There would be nothing petty, because what they felt for each other made even the simplest things profound.

He wanted to speak to her again, immediately. He wanted to reassure her about the children, and to tell her how their mention had made him feel. It would all work out. At least the visit would give them time. They would have to have time, in order to consolidate; in order to be ready, yes, for what the other end had to throw at them. In paradise, then, they could not actually afford dalliance but would have to do some hard talking. He girded up his mental loins.

The other person who did not shun them was Joe.

‘You got home late enough last night, Bob.’

‘Well, yes. I had some things to attend to, Joe.’ Robert ferreted in his half of the cupboard.

‘Studying I expect, was it, Bob?’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘Very fine woman, that Mrs Kendrick, don’t you think, Bob?’

‘What? Yes. I suppose she is.’

‘Not going to get much chess in from now on are we, Bob?’

‘No. Perhaps not.’

‘Shame, that. But aren’t you going to bring her back to meet the folks? Maybe she plays. Couldn’t be much worse than you, could she now, Bob?’

‘All right, Joe. You win.’ He stopped what he was doing.

‘Well, I might hang around in the bars too much, old mate, but I’m not blind and stupid to boot.’

Robert turned. His straight face split and he laughed.

‘Only I want you to know, Bob, that if there’s anything I can do … You know what I mean; it’s not going to be easy, now is it?’

‘No.’ His face clouded again. ‘No, it isn’t. Not when we get there.’

‘It isn’t so much plain sailing just now, is it? Either?’

‘Oh, the wagging tongues? We don’t mind about them. Why should we?’

‘Caused a bit of a stir, somehow, Bob. Joker came up to me with a drink in his hand. Never noticed him, hardly, all voyage. Wanted to bone on about the deeds of my cabin-mate. Lot of people doing the same, it seems.’

‘Nothing better to occupy them?’

‘True enough, Bob. The curse of idleness – drink and gossip. A lot of harmless fun at somebody else’s expense. Irresistible to most. But then you’d think – a lot of ladies and gentlemen thrown together, holiday atmosphere perhaps, some of them off the leash, in a manner of speaking. Throwing away the old life, and putting on the new. Dancing, and whatever not. It’s a cocktail, isn’t it, Bob? Sea passages like this are known for it, aren’t they? Anybody could tell you that. And I daresay, by this far out, you two aren’t the only ones – by a long way, Bob. Yet I can tell you, it’s caused quite a stir, you and Mrs Kendrick. Can’t quite work out exactly why.’

‘Because we won’t skulk around. Because we mean it.’

‘Because you’re both somehow defiant about it. Did you know that? Yes, that’s the word. Defiant. It’s only happened a day or so and yet everyone’s suddenly buzzing. Like you’ve both been electrified.’

‘Surely not.’

‘Take my word for it.’

‘None of their business.’

‘Agreed. But as I was going to say, Bob, if you need … If you get into a tight spot and need a hand, you can rely on me. I like you, Bob; and I like the look of her. And I like the way you’re not dishonest and creeping about. Some things are just OK, no matter what the rules are. You both look as though it suits you, you both look right, somehow. That’s what I feel in my bones, Bob. Sounds stupid, doesn’t it. Sounds a bit crook. But from what I see it can’t be much of a bad thing.’

Robert gripped his hand. ‘I’m really grateful, Joe. Believe me. Really grateful.’

Joe returned the handshake. ‘Still, I’ll miss the chess. Oh, one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s long gone half-way. You don’t mind if I take the top bunk from here on, do you?’

‘Utterly not. Think of the deal as done, Joe. Take it with my best wishes.’

‘Thanks a lot, mate. And if you’re going to be coming in late, you won’t have to climb on my head, will you?’

‘Yes. Or rather no. Sorry about that, Joe.’

‘All right.’

I watched their progress. They were the lovers now. They were being swept away by the woman in the sari and her husband. They had eclipsed Chaunteyman.

I considered what I knew of the East. Hindus cast the hoodoo, for so sang George Formby often enough on
Midday Music-hall
– an idiot with a banjo, who had been given the brief of interpreting these matters. The Chinese laundry song, too; Formby had a handle on it. Erica’s father admired him. But in our house my own grandfather was regarded as the true oriental authority, because he had spent so much time there in a battleship. He had brought back the curiosities on display in the front parlour. He knew India was bursting at the seams with beggars and princes; one China baby was born every minute. I used to look at our clock. And at the map. Where would they go: Malaya, Burma, Siam? Women were thrown on fires, infants eaten, girls had their feet bound, and boys climbed snakes to disappear. If East met West we should be overwhelmed by conjuring tricks. And comic songs.

Earlier in my life the wireless had often said the situation in Indo-China was worsening. My grandfather explained, ‘It’s China in India’. Our miniature carved ivories proved his point. They were complex and strange – all that displaced flesh: wrists, ear lobes, a long-fingered hand. There was an elephant head with an array of arms; a willowy, soft-faced woman with a long beard. There was an intricate parasoled moon-maiden; a monkey; someone with an enormous tongue; and a tree with girls, rocks and a crocodile. There was a pot-bellied bald man in jade-like stone, and a little bronze dancer in a ring of flames. The top of our folding Benares table was hammered with divinities afloat above the Taj Mahal. And there was that boat-shaped relic made from a large bamboo tube.

I’ve got a bimbo down on a bamboo isle.

On waking suddenly from his nap my grandfather, who kept old Navy pronunciations for things, might quote from an obscene poem he called the ‘Ganges Layment’, and then deny it. His life had been spotless. He had visited, of course, the
Maylays
, could describe from first hand the pigtails on Chinese pirates, turbanned boatmen in the dawn at Calcutta, and the astonishing foods of curried dog, horse, hundred-year-old egg, sweet-and-sour pig, bird’s nest soup. He told of a British cruiser up a Boxer river with a snake aboard. The snake had its neck shattered in a shower of mess plates, and its skin made into a walking-stick.

Grandad was our natural arbiter on anything far-flung, anything unimaginable. He knew how to handle it. He could even speak Indian,
pani, jaldi
; and pretended to some Mandarin. So no unnecessary mention was made in our house of the parts of London where it was suddenly becoming common to see brown people, or black. Because of Grandad’s heart. Except for once – where this subject caused the only row in which I ever saw
my
father’s smouldering hatred for his own. Grandad had no interest in Jamaicans, as designed for slavery by whatever god made that puddle, the Atlantic. They were a flash in the pan. But he declared the Indian in general more work-shy and less trustworthy than the Chinaman. The Chinese were better organised and could only be crossed at the sailor’s peril, whereas an Indian would steal a man’s anything and everything. ‘You watch your pockets on them bloody buses, sonny,’ he instructed me. ‘Should never have let ’em in. They’ll see me under, you mark my words. Old England’s done for, you wait and see.’