The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - II - The World Over (19 page)

“I’ve got fever, Kong,” gasped Skelton. “Get me the medicine chest and, for God’s sake, blankets. I’m freezing to death.”

Kong gave his master a big dose of quinine and piled on him what coverings they had. They started off again.

Skelton was too ill to be taken ashore when they tied up for the night and so passed it in the prahu. All next day and the day after he was very ill. Sometimes one or other of the crew came and looked at him, and often the headman stayed for quite a long while staring at him thoughtfully.

“How many days to the coast?” Skelton asked the boy.

“Four, five.” He paused for a minute. “Headman, he no go coast. He say, he wantchee go home.”

“Tell him to go to hell.”

“Headman say, you velly sick, you die. If you die and he go coast he catchee trouble.”

“I’m not thinking of dying,” said Skelton. “I shall be all right. It’s just an ordinary go of malaria.”

Kong did not answer. The silence irritated Skelton. He knew that the Chinese had something in mind that he did not like to say.

“Spit it out, you fool,” he cried.

Skelton’s heart sank when Kong told him the truth. When they reached their resting-place that night the headman was going to demand his money and slip away with the two prahus before dawn. He was too frightened to carry a dying man farther. Skelton had no strength to take the determined attitude that might have availed him; he could only hope by the offer of more money to persuade the headman to carry out his agreement. The day passed in long arguments between Kong and the headman, but when they tied up for the night the headman came to Skelton and told him sulkily that he would go no farther. There was a long-house near by where he might get lodging till he grew better. He began to unload the baggage. Skelton refused to move. He got Kong to give him his revolver and swore to shoot anyone who came near him.

Kong, the crew, and the headman went up to the long-house and Skelton was left alone. Hour after hour he lay there, the fever burning his body and his mouth parched, while muddled thoughts hammered away in his brain. Then there were lights and the sound of men talking. The Chinese boy came with the headman and another man, whom Skelton had not yet seen, from the neighbouring long-house. He did his best to understand what Kong was telling him. It appeared that a few hours down-stream there lived a white man, and to his house, if that would satisfy Skelton, the headman was willing to take him.

“More better you say yes,” said Kong. “Maybe white man has launch, then we go down to coast chop-chop.”

“Who is he?”

“Planter,” said Kong. “This fellow say, him have rubber estate.”

Skelton was too tired to argue further. All he wanted just then was to sleep. He accepted the compromise.

“To tell you the truth,” he finished, “I don’t remember much more till I woke up yesterday morning to find myself an uninvited guest in your house.”

“I don’t blame those Dyaks, you know,” said Grange. “When I came down to the prahu and saw you, I thought you were for it.”

Mrs Grange sat silent while Skelton told his story, her head and her hand twitching regularly, as though by the action of some invisible clockwork, but when her husband addressed her, asking for the Worcester Sauce, and that was the only time he spoke to her, she was seized with such a paroxysm of involuntary movement that it was horrible to see. She passed him what he asked for without a word. Skelton got an uncomfortable impression that she was terrified of Grange. It was odd, because to all appearance he was not a bad sort. He was knowledgeable and far from stupid; and though you could not have said that his manner was cordial, it was plain that he was ready to be of what service he could.

They finished their meal and separated to rest through the heat of the day.

“See you again at six for a sun-downer,” said Grange.

When Skelton had had a good sleep, a bath, and a read, he went out on to the veranda. Mrs Grange came up to him. It looked as though she had been waiting.

“He’s back from the office. Don’t think it’s funny if I don’t speak to you. If he thought I liked having you here he’d turn you out tomorrow.”

She said these words in a whisper and slipped back into the house. Skelton was startled. It was a strange house he had come into in a strange manner. He went into the overcrowded sitting-room and there found his host. He had been worried by the evident poverty of the establishment and he felt that the Granges could ill afford even the small expense he must be putting them to. But he had already formed the impression that Grange was a quick-tempered, susceptible man and he did not know how he would take an offer to help. He made up his mind to risk it.

“Look here,” he said to him, “it looks as though I might have to inflict myself on you for several days. I’d be so much more comfortable if you’d let me pay for my board and lodging.”

“Oh, that’s all right, your lodging costs nothing, the house belongs to the mortgagees, and your board doesn’t come to much.”

“Well, there are drinks anyway and I’ve had to come down on your stores of tobacco and cigarettes.”

“It’s not more than once a year that anyone comes up here, and then it’s only the D.O. or someone like that-besides, when one’s as broke as I am nothing matters much.”

“Well, then, will you take my camp equipment? I shan’t be wanting it any more, and if you’d like one of my guns, I’d be only too glad to leave it with you.”

Grange hesitated. There was a glimmer of cupidity in those small, cunning eyes of his.

“If you’d let me have one of your guns you’d pay for your board and lodging over and over again.”

“That’s settled, then.”

They began to talk over the whisky and sparkler with which, following the Eastern habit, they celebrated the setting of the sun. Discovering that they both played chess they had a game. Mrs Grange did not join them till dinner. The meal was dull. An insipid soup, a tasteless river fish, a tough piece of steak, and a caramel pudding. Norman Grange and Skelton drank beer; Mrs Grange water. She never of her own will uttered a word. Skelton had again the uncomfortable impression that she was scared to death of her husband. Once or twice, Skelton from common politeness sought to bring her into the conversation, addressing himself to her, telling her a story or asking her a question, but it evidently distressed her so much, her head twitched so violently, her hand was agitated by gestures so spasmodic that he thought it kinder not to insist. When the meal was over she got up. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your port,” she said.

Both the men got up as she left the room. It was rather absurd, and somehow sinister, to see this social pretence in those poverty-stricken surroundings on a Borneo river.

“I may add that there is no port. There might be a little Benedictine left.”

“Oh, don’t bother.”

They talked for a while and Grange began to yawn. He got up every morning before sunrise and by nine o’clock at night could hardly keep his eyes open.

“Well, I’m going to turn in,” he said.

He nodded to Skelton and without further ceremony left him. Skelton went to bed, but he could not sleep. Though the heat was oppressive, it was not the heat that kept him awake. There was something horrible about that house and those two people who lived in it. He didn’t know what it was that affected him with this peculiar uneasiness, but this he knew, that he would be heartily thankful to be out of it and away from them. Grange had talked a good deal about himself, but he knew no more of him than he had learned at the first glance. To all appearances he was just the commonplace planter who had fallen upon evil days. He had bought his land immediately after the war and had planted trees; but by the time they were bearing the slump had come and since then it had been a constant struggle to keep going. The estate and the house were heavily mortgaged, and now that rubber was once more selling profitably all he made went to the mortgagees. That was an old story in Malaya. What made Grange somewhat unusual was that he was a man without a country. Born in Borneo, he had lived there with his parents till he was old enough to go to school in England; at seventeen he had come back and had never left it since except to go to Mesopotamia during the war. England meant nothing to him. He had neither relations nor friends there. Most planters, like civil servants, have come from England, go back on leave now and then, and look forward to settling down there when they retire. But what had England to offer Norman Grange?

“I was born here,” he said, “and I shall die here. I’m a stranger in England. I don’t like their ways over there and I don’t understand the things they talk about. And yet I’m a stranger here too. To the Malays and the Chinese I’m a white man, though I speak Malay as well as they do, and a white man I shall always be.” Then he said a significant thing. “Of course if I’d had any sense I’d have married a Malay girl and had half a dozen half-caste kids. That’s the only solution really for us chaps who were born and bred here.”

Grange’s bitterness was greater than could be explained by his financial embarrassment. He had little good to say of any of the white men in the colony. He seemed to think that they despised him because he was native-born. He was a sour, disappointed fellow, and a conceited one. He had shown Skelton his books. There were not many of them, but they were the best on the whole that English literature can show; he had read them over and over again; but it looked as though he had learnt from them neither charity nor loving-kindness, it looked as though their beauty had left him unmoved; and to know them so well had only made him self-complacent. His exterior, which was so hearty and English, seemed to have little relation to the man within; you could not resist the suspicion that it masked a very sinister being.

Early next morning, to enjoy the cool of the day, Skelton, with his pipe and a book, was sitting on the veranda outside his room. He was still very weak, but felt much better. In a little while Mrs Grange joined him. She held in her hand a large album.

“I thought I’d like to show you some of me old photos and me notices. You mustn’t think I always looked like what I do now. He’s off on his round and he won’t be back for two or three hours yet.”

Mrs Grange, in the same blue dress she had worn the day before, her hair as untidy, appeared strangely excited.

“It’s all I have to remind me of the past. Sometimes when I can’t bear life any more I look at my album.”

She sat by Skelton’s side as he turned the pages. The notices were from provincial papers, and the references to Mrs Grange, whose stage name had been apparently Vesta Blaise, were carefully underlined. From the photographs, you could see that she had been pretty enough in an undistinguished way. She had acted in musical comedy and revue, in farce and comedy, and taking the photographs and the notices together it was easy to tell that here had been the common, dreary, rather vulgar career of the girl with no particular talent who has taken to the stage on the strength of a pretty face and a good figure. Her head twitching, her hand shaking, Mrs Grange looked at the photographs and read the notices with as much interest as if she had never seen them before.

“You’ve got to have influence on the stage, and I never had any,” she said. “If I’d only had my chance I know I’d have made good. I had bad luck, there’s no doubt about that.”

It was all sordid and somewhat pathetic.

“I daresay you’re better off as you are,” said Skelton.

She snatched the book from him and shut it with a bang. She had a paroxysm so violent that it was really frightening to look at her.

“What d’you mean by that? What d’you know about the life I lead here? I’d have killed myself years ago only I know he wants me to die. That’s the only way I can get back on him, by living, and I’m going to live; I’m going to live as long as he does. Oh, I hate him. I’ve often thought I’d poison him, but I was afraid. I didn’t know how to do it really, and if he died the Chinks would foreclose and I’d be turned out. And where should I go then? I haven’t a friend in the world.”

Skelton was aghast. It flashed through his mind that she was crazy. He hadn’t a notion what to say. She gave him a keen look.

“I suppose it surprises you to hear me talk like that. I mean it, you know, every word of it. He’d like to kill me too, but he daren’t either. And he knows how to do it all right. He knows how the Malays kill people. He was born here. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about the country.”

Skelton forced himself to speak.

“You know, Mrs Grange, I’m a total stranger. Don’t you think it’s rather unwise to tell me all sorts of things there’s no need for me to know? After all, you live a very solitary life. I daresay you get on one another’s nerves. Now that things are looking up perhaps you’ll be able to take a trip to England.”

“I don’t want to go to England. I’d be ashamed to let them see me like I am now. D’you know how old I am? Forty-six. I look sixty and I know it. That’s why I showed you those photos, so as you might see I wasn’t always like what I am now. Oh, my God, how I’ve wasted my life! They talk of the romance of the East. They can have it. I’d rather be a dresser in a provincial theatre, I’d rather be one of the sweepers that keep it clean, than what I am now. Until I came here I’d never been alone in my life, I’d always lived in a crowd; you don’t know what it is to have nobody to talk to from year’s end to year’s end. To have to keep it all bottled up. How would you like to see no one, week in and week out, day after day for sixteen years, except the man you hate most in the world? How would you like to live for sixteen years with a man who hates you so he can’t bear to look at you?”