Читать книгу The Scarlet Macaw - S.P. Hozy - Страница 14

It’s not often that I’m invited to attend a wedding on my travels, but, occasionally, if I’m in the right place at the right time, an invitation is graciously extended and I usually accept. Weddings are, as a rule, happy occasions and they give one a chance to eat and drink and converse with people who are in a mood to celebrate. And I, once it is revealed that I am a writer, have often been the recipient of a story or two, sometimes divulged after much drink, but usually freely given in conversation by someone who is forced, because of the nature of their occupation, to spend many lonely hours away from the company of people, so talk is a welcome, dare I say it, yearned for pastime.

This particular wedding was, in fact, a very small affair, consisting of the bride (recently out from England), the groom, their two attendants (both male, as it happened), and about a half dozen “guests,” including myself. Although it took place in a chapel attached to the Anglican church, there were no flowers and the bride was dressed in a dark blue woolen suit — a bit warm for the intense, steamy climate, but she had only just arrived from England and, I suspect, had nothing else to wear — and a black felt hat pulled down over her hair and framing her face, as was the style au courant in the 1920s. I said there were no flowers, but I do recall that she had a small bunch of white jasmine pinned to her jacket that made a simple but attractive complement to her plain white silk blouse.

The groom was someone I had previously met in England, an aspiring writer who had come out to Singapore with his savings in order to produce a book — something he claimed he could not afford to do in England. He had very little money and, as a result, the wedding ring he put on his bride’s finger was made of brass. The ring was as shiny and yellow as gold, but before the party celebrating their nuptials ended, it had turned her finger green because of the excessive humidity that is common in that part of the world. I believe shortly thereafter she took to wearing the ring on a gold chain around her neck, the chain having been a gift from her parents on her eighteenth birthday. I felt a little sorry for the poor girl that day. She clearly had not yet adjusted to the heat, nor the exotic surroundings and alien customs of her new life. She seemed nervous and uncomfortable, but now, as I look back these many years later, I realize with some disconsolation that it was the happiest she would be for the rest of her life.

But on that day, when anything was possible, including living blissfully ever after, we were all in a mood to celebrate, so after the formalities were done, we went off to the Raffles Hotel and had a party. The Raffles was the hotel I always stayed at when I was in Singapore. It was opened by the Sarkies brothers from Armenia in the late 1880s. I was also fond of staying at two other Sarkies hotels when I was in Asia, the Eastern & Oriental in Penang and the Strand in Rangoon. They are handsome buildings with well-appointed rooms where one is always made to feel at home. The staff I have found to be exceedingly helpful and polite, and one never has to ask twice for anything.

The two attending witnesses had made arrangements earlier with the hotel staff to discreetly present them with the bill, so as not to stint on the celebrations and not to embarrass the groom. They were both bachelors in the employ of Guthrie and Co., the trading company started by a Scotsman, Alexander Guthrie, around 1821. I had noticed that one of them, Rodney, seemed more than a little fond of the bride. He had been unable to take his eyes off her during the brief marriage ceremony. I was intrigued by this and decided to have a word with him at some point during the festivities. Maybe there would be an appealing story in it.

As the party progressed, and much food was eaten and much beer and whisky drunk, I was able to glean certain facts about the couple from the various guests, none of whom knew them well, but each of whom seemed to have a piece of the story, as it were. The groom, Thomas Noble, had come out from England about six months earlier, with the grand dream of becoming a famous author. I knew something about the difficulties involved in this kind of endeavour, having once been an aspiring author myself. Being a few years older than the groom, I had already established myself as a writer whose books and stories found a market among the literate and semi-literate of England and those parts of Europe where English books are sought after and read. I wished him well and hoped that he had enough money to support himself for at least five years. Publishing is a hit-and-miss business, and not everyone who writes a book will see it in print, let alone see it sell.

The bride, Adele Simpkins (or Adele Noble, as she would now be known), was no more than twenty-five years of age I was sure, a pretty girl in that classic English way, with a lovely clear complexion, eyes the colour of cornflowers, and soft brown hair that fell in natural waves around her heart-shaped face. Thomas and Adele made an attractive couple. He was several inches taller than her, with wheat-coloured hair and hazel eyes that promised an interesting variety in their children, should they have any. They appeared to be very much in love, but I sensed a degree of self-absorption, common to writers, in Thomas that Adele would have to learn to put up with. Writing is a solitary pursuit, and even though writers want a wife and family like everybody else, they are inclined to live apart from them in some ways. Because they more often inhabit the places of the mind rather than the body, it can be discouraging for those who have to live with them.

I managed to catch up with the young man from Guthrie’s who had acted as one of the witnesses to the marriage of Thomas and Adele, and we sat together with a bottle of whisky and swapped stories. He was an intelligent chap, handsome and athletic like most of the young men who came out to that part of the world in those days. A love of competitive sport and a cheerful (verging on jovial) disposition were almost prerequisites for employment with the trading companies and the Malayan Civil Service (or the M.C.S. as it was then called). The workday was long and demanding, the weather often boiling hot, and the climate, to say the least, unhealthy. Marriage was discouraged, in fact often prohibited, by the company for a number of years. Sports and games were considered a healthy outlet for young men’s energy. It was also a widely held belief that a man who participated in competitive games was a man you could count on to do a good, honest day’s work, and who would do his best for the “team.”

Rodney Sewell was just that sort of man. He immediately impressed me as the kind of chap who would lay down his life for king and country if called upon. He was very good looking but in a casual, even indifferent way, and he seemed unaware of his effect on women. His hair was fair and sun-bleached, and his skin was tanned to an agreeable shade that was one part coffee to three parts cream. He sported a handsome blond moustache that precisely framed his top lip.

We sat at a small table in the Long Bar and watched as the wedding guests mixed with the bar’s regular patrons. Rodney’s arm was casually draped across the back of the unoccupied chair next to him. The afternoon was hot but he looked cool in his white linen suit. I pulled out a handkerchief and wiped my brow. I wanted to ask him how he did it, but instead I thanked him for his generosity to the young couple and offered to pay a share of the bill.

“Very kind,” he said, “but not necessary. My mate Archie and I are happy to cover it.”

“How long have you known the happy couple?” I asked.

“I met Tommy soon after he got here,” he said. “That was about five months ago. He used to come and watch the cricket matches on Sundays. We got to chatting one time and he said he was a writer. I thought that was kind of interesting. Never met a writer before. I started inviting him round to our bungalow — me and Archie share with two other Guthrie’s chaps — and we had some grand conversations. He told us all about his girl, Adele, and said she was his fiancée but he couldn’t persuade her to come over and get married. He was bound and determined to write a book, and said he couldn’t do it in England. Money, he said. He was quite open about the whole thing.” Rodney chuckled. “And we could sympathize, I tell you.” He poured us both another shot and turned to face me.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I love the life here. You know, the adventure, the experience, and all that. Something to remember in my old age, for sure. But you give up a lot when you come here: marriage, family, they all have to wait. Not many women are willing to chuck it all in and take a chance on love in the Far East. And the Company …” and here he hesitated before continuing, “… frowns, shall we say, on employees marrying before they’ve been here long enough to save up a nice tidy sum of money. So, female companionship, at least of the English kind,” he chuckled again, “is scarce as hen’s teeth.”

“Come, come,” I said. “Are you telling me all of you want to settle down with a wife and children? Because if you are,” and I raised a skeptical eyebrow, “I can only conclude you’ve been spending too much time in the sun without a hat on.”

Rodney threw back his head and laughed. “Right,” he said. “It does sound a bit daft. I guess it’s just that you always want what you can’t have. If the place were teeming with available young women, we’d probably ignore them half the time, and complain about their meddling the other half.”

“Agreed,” I said, and smiled. “I guess it’s human nature.”

We contemplated for a moment, and I looked over at Rodney. He was watching Adele, who was chatting with the only other female at the party, a thin, matronly woman in a dark green crepe dress with a white collar. Her dull brown hair was severely pulled back into a small knot, and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles sat on her nose. She looked to be about forty-five, but was probably in her early thirties. She was the wife of the vicar who had married the young couple, and was no doubt giving Adele some sound advice on how to manage married life in Singapore. Adele occasionally nodded her head in agreement and once even laughed at something the vicar’s wife said.

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” I said to Rodney.

“Yes,” he said, “she is.”

“Do you think she’ll be all right?” I asked. “From what you’ve told me, it’s not much of a life for a woman out here. Especially a young woman, newly married.”

“That’s right,” he said. “She probably won’t find too many friends here.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Not connected,” he said matter-of-factly. “Her husband’s not in business and he’s not in the M.C.S. His only friends are bachelors like me.”

“Ah,” I said. “I see the problem.”

“It won’t be easy for her, that’s for sure. I doubt she has any idea what’s in store for her. And she’s left everything she cares about behind in England. Except for Tommy, of course,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Yes, of course. Tommy,” I said. “Think he’ll do right by her?”

Rodney chuckled. “He’d better,” he said quietly, “or he’ll have to answer to me.”

I thought it best not to comment and waited for him to go on.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, pouring more whisky into our glasses. “I like Tommy. He’s a good chap. But writing’s not a real job, know what I mean?”

I nodded my head. Indeed, I did know what he meant.

“You can’t eat dreams. And words and sentences, no matter how brilliant, don’t pay the rent.” He laughed at this, as if he’d made a joke. But it was an uncomfortable laugh, as if he’d recognized a profounder truth than he’d intended.

“But he has money enough for now, hasn’t he?” I asked. For hadn’t someone said that Tommy had come to Singapore with a stake that would last him five years?

“Yes,” said Rodney, “it’s what I’ve heard. What we all believe. But what if he isn’t willing to give up this writing thing if it doesn’t pan out? What if one of them gets sick, God forbid, or there’s a baby? Then the five years becomes two or three, right? Things don’t always work out the way we plan them. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I said. “You’re right. You can’t plan for the unexpected.”

“Exactly,” he said. “My point exactly. And I wonder if Tommy’s thought about that and thought this thing through to all its possible conclusions.”

By this time, Rodney and I had consumed a fair amount of the whisky his generosity had provided. We were both a good way into our cups, I must say, and when that happens, one doesn’t always think of how wonderful the world is and how lucky we are to be inhabiting it. I’m sure we each imagined a dismal fate for the unsuspecting young couple, who had only been married a few hours at this point. Rodney lifted his right arm and dropped it heavily on my shoulders.

“Just between you and me,” he said, focusing his reddening eyes on mine, “I think she’s too good for him.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “I see.”

“She could have any man in this room,” he said, waving his left arm in a sweeping motion that took in the small party of seemingly unconnected individuals, including the good Reverend, a few other Guthrie’s fellows, and a couple of Chinese waiters. “Any one of them,” he repeated.

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, “but she’s chosen Tommy. For better or for worse.”

“Better or worse,” he mumbled.

I did not hear how things turned out for Tommy and Adele for many years. By that time I was living in Monte Carlo and was a frequent guest at the salon of Lady Brett Winstone, a woman of exceptional beauty and intelligence who liked the company of writers and artists and who entertained those travellers who passed through the small kingdom of Monaco when heading for eastern and western destinations. At one of these affairs, I found myself chatting amiably with a gentleman who had spent nearly two decades in Malaya in the employ of Guthrie’s.

“Guthrie’s?” I queried. “I met a chap several years ago in Singapore who was employed at Guthrie’s. It was at a wedding, as I recall. At the Raffles Hotel. He and his mate were generously picking up the tab for the young couple. The groom was a writer or, at least, aspired to be a writer.”

The man, well into the encumbrances of middle age — paunchy, slightly balding, and of a florid complexion — threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, yes,” he said, “that was me. Rodney Sewell, it is, and glad to see you again.” We shook hands and I re-introduced myself. “We put away a good amount of whisky that day, didn’t we?” he said. “I cursed you the next day, I did. But we were both much younger then, weren’t we, old chap?”

Indeed we were, I said, and we chatted amiably for a few minutes, catching up on the years that had intervened between our two encounters.

“By the way,” I said, “I’ve often wondered what became of the young couple who were married that day. Tommy and Adele, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Tommy and Adele.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a cigar. “Do you mind?” he asked. I shook my head and he prepared and lit the end before continuing. Perhaps he needed the time to recollect the events he would relate to me.

“Very sad,” he said, finally, slowly shaking his head. “I’m afraid it all ended rather badly.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve thought of them over the years and always hoped it had worked out for them.”

“Fever,” he said. “Poor chap died quite soon after and she was left with very little once she’d paid his debts. He’d told her he had enough money to live on for five years, but that was a lie. He barely had enough for five months. And when that was gone, he’d got himself tangled up with the damnable Chinese moneylenders, and that’s a life sentence, let me tell you. But what was she to do? It wasn’t five minutes after she buried him that they came after her for the money. She couldn’t leave and she couldn’t stay. It wasn’t as if she could go out and get a job. Poor girl. Poor, poor girl.”

I remembered that he’d been half in love with her at the wedding, but I didn’t know how to broach the subject. I needn’t have worried; he brought it up himself.

“I wanted so badly to help her. I cared for her, you know,” he said, looking at me through the smoke of his cigar. “Would have married her myself if I could have. But the Company, you know, wouldn’t allow it. I hadn’t finished my two terms yet and they were very strict about that sort of thing. I did what I could,” he said, shaking his head, “but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t save her.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Drowned herself,” he replied. “At least, that’s what they said it was. Suicide. But I never believed it. Didn’t want to believe it, I guess.” He flicked the ash from his cigar into an elaborate Venetian glass ashtray that a footman had placed on a nearby table. “Nearly left Guthrie’s over it,” he continued. “Blamed them and their stupid, stupid rules. I could have saved her, I believed. Believed it for a long time. But now I’m not so sure. Time and all that, makes a man think differently.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, looking at me with those same eyes that I had looked into so many years earlier, except this time the redness, I suspected, was from tears.

“She didn’t love me, did she?”