The Judas Tree (16 page)

And Dorrie, did he not regret her most of all? What a damned attractive girl she was – even her variable moods were somehow fascinating. One could never be bored by her. On the contrary, just to be with her was an excitement. At night, sleepless in his stifling cabin, which lay close against the high dock wall, he tossed about in his bunk, thinking of their dances together, of how, looking into his eyes with that intent and silent invitation, she had pressed against him, of that afternoon on the boat deck when all sorts of possibilities had opened to him. A wave of hot longing swept over him. What a fool he had been to reject that seductive offering. How O'Neil would laugh, if he ever came to hear of it. What a clot she must have thought him. Could she be blamed for having written him off altogether? He buried his face in the pillow in an access of misery and self-contempt.

At the end of that week, on a sweltering, gritty forenoon, as Moray leaned idly over the deck rail, his spirits at their lowest ebb, he saw, as in a mirage, the big shining Chrysler enter the dock and roll alongside the ship. Stunned, he raised his hand to his eyes. It couldn't be real, the sun and his imagination had produced a visual hallucination. But no, there, gracefully reclining in the rear, one arm negligently along the upholstered seat back, plump legs nonchalantly crossed, Burma cheroot poised airily between ringed fingers, topee at a rakish tilt, was Bert.

‘Do my aged eyes deceive me, or do I perceive the medical officer of the good ship
Pindari?
' Bert called up with a grin: then, in a different voice, ‘Bring out your gear, old boy. You're coming to us.'

Moray's heart leaped. They had not forgotten him. Pale with excitement and relief he rushed down to his cabin. What an idiot he had been – of course they wanted him, it couldn't have been otherwise. In less than five minutes he had changed out of his uniform and was in the car with his suitcase, which the native chauffeur bestowed in the boot. As they purred off towards the city, Bert explained the reason for the delay in calling for him – a hitch in the warehouse lease that had taken several days to straighten out. But now the agreement was signed and they were free to let themselves go in a proper good time.

‘This is a lively old burg once you savez your way around,' he confided easily. ‘Some geezer called it the City of Dreadful Night, but I've found the nights full of something better than dread. There's a couple of little Eurasian nurses – hot stuff and pretty as you find them.' He blew an explanatory kiss into the air. ‘I speak with the voice of experience, m'boy. But there, I know you're only interested in our Doris. And believe me, though she's my sister, Dorrie's a pretty good number herself.'

Clear of the outer straggle of dilapidated shacks, they entered the city proper by the wide, crowded stretch of Chowringhe Road, swept past the broad maidan, green with ficus trees and studded with lamentable equestrian statues, then drew up under the tall portico of the North Eastern Hotel. They were bowed in, through the high marble pillared hall, whirling with ceiling fans, and Bert led the way upstairs to the room he had reserved for Moray adjoining their own apartments on the first floor.

‘I'll leave you to get straight for half an hour,' he said, looking at his watch, ‘ Ma and Dad are out, but we'll all meet at tiffin, meaning lunch, Dave.'

When he had gone Moray looked round the room. It was most luxurious – large and cool, tastefully tiled, with latticed jalousies and fresh, draped mosquito curtains shading the large high bed which had been turned down to expose fine spotless linen. The furniture was painted a pale shade of green, and a bowl of roses stood on the dressing table. Beyond was the bathroom, white and gleaming, lush with towels, soap, bath salts and a soft white bath robe. He smiled delightedly. What a difference from his small, stuffy, mosquito-ridden cabin: this was the real thing. He unpacked his few things, had a wash, and was brushing his hair when the door opened and Doris came in.

‘Hello,' she said briefly.

He swung round.

‘Dorrie … how are you?'

‘Still breathing, if it interests you.'

They gazed at each other in silence, he with admiring ardour, she with an almost expressionless face. She was wearing a smart new clinging frock in soft petunia colours, fine beige silk stockings and high-heeled suède shoes. She had on a lipstick that matched the predominant pink in her frock, and her hair had been freshly set. She looked different, smarter even than on the ship, older, more attractively sophisticated, and, alas, less attainable. Her scent came towards him.

‘You look … stunning,' he said huskily,

‘Yes,' she said coolly, reading his eyes. ‘I believe you're slightly glad to see me.'

‘More than slightly. The question is … what about you?'

She gave him a long direct stare, then barely smiled.

‘You're here, aren't you? That seems to be the answer.'

‘Good of you to have me,' he murmured, submissively, ‘ It was rather miserable down at the docks.'

‘I thought it might be,' she said with cold knowledge. ‘I wanted to punish you.'

He looked at her blankly.

‘What on earth for?'

‘I just wanted to,' she answered noncommittally. ‘ I like to be cruel sometimes.'

‘What a little sadist,' he said, trying to catch the facetious note he had once used towards her. Yet as he spoke he had the odd sensation that the balance of their relationship had altered, passed to her. He felt suddenly, dismally, her wish to establish that on shore he had ceased to be the dashing, sought-after young ship's surgeon in his natty company uniform, and was no more than an ordinary young fellow in a worn hand-me-down suit that did not fit and was quite unsuitable for the climate. However, although aware of the effect she had created, she had dropped the subject as though it no longer interested her.

‘You like my new dress?'

‘It's a dream,' he said, still striving for lightness. ‘Did you get it here?'

‘We bought the silk in the bazaar yesterday. They have lovely native material there. It was made up in twenty-four hours.'

‘Fast work,' he commented.

‘And about time,' she said coolly. ‘I can't stand waiting, or being put off. To be quite frank, I've had about enough of that in the last two weeks, the way you've been giving me the air. And incidentally, because I've told you off, don't imagine we're all straightened out. I haven't forgiven you yet by a long chop. I'll want a word with you later,' As she turned to go she seemed to relent. Her expression cleared slightly. ‘I hope you like your room. I put the roses in myself. I'm just across the corridor –' she flashed him a sly glance, ‘if you need anything.'

When she had gone he remained staring at the panels of the closed door. She was offended, and no wonder, after the way he had cold-shouldered her. How stupid and unmannerly he had been to hurt her feelings. He hoped she would come round in the end.

Below, in the great marbled lounge, his welcome by the Holbrook parents was altogether different, almost that of a returned son. Indeed, Mrs Holbrook kissed him on the cheek. Luncheon was more than a reunion, almost a festival. They had a table by the window, overlooking the gardens, four native servants in white tunics with red sashes and turbans stood behind their chairs, the food, chosen by Bert, was rich, spicy and exotic. This was the first time Moray had been in an hotel since that eventful day at the Gairsay Grand, but if a recollection of that other, so different, lunch crossed his mind it was swiftly gone, swept away by Bert's explosive laughter. Exuberantly bent on showing them the town, he was, while juicily disposing of a succulent mango, outlining his programme for the coming week. This afternoon he proposed to take them to the Jain Temple and the Gardens of Manicklola, to see the famous fish in the ornamental lake.

‘They're quite remarkable,' he concluded. ‘They come to the surface and swim over to you when you call them.'

‘Now, now, Bert,' Mrs Holbrook smiled in fond protest.

‘Seriously, Mater. I'm not joking. They'll eat out of your hand if you want to feed them.'

‘Imagine that! What do fish like best?'

‘Chips,' Doris said in a bored voice, then went into fits of laughter.

After a siesta, when the sun had begun to decline, they set off, driving through thronged bazaars where the sacred cattle, garlanded with marigolds, wandered amongst the stalls, butting through the crowds, browsing at will on the fruits displayed. Strange sounds, high-pitched and remote, struck the ear above the high keening of native tongues, a distant temple bell, the booming of a gong, a sudden shrill cry, that lingered, vibrating on the nerves. The air was charged with aromatic scents, heady and provocative, that stung the nostrils and drugged the senses. Moray felt as though he were lifted up, absorbed to a state of extreme excitement and beatitude. His individuality had been extinguished, he was not himself, but had become an altogether different man, entering upon a new and thrilling adventure.

Arrived at the temple, they removed their shoes and entered the incense-misted dusk where the great gold Buddha wore eternally that impassive and ironic smile. They wandered in the gardens of the court jeweller, a network of ornamental filigree, called and fed the huge obedient carp. Moray's intoxication increased. Doris, wearing her new petunia frock and a little plaited straw hat with a double ribbon that fell over the brim in two tantalising little tags, had taken on the special glamour of the afternoon. Seated beside her on the way home, he turned towards her with a surge of gratitude.

‘It's all been so wonderful, Dorrie … and to see it with you …'.

She had sensed the change in him, and while her manner since lunch had been increasingly possessive, whenever he advanced she had chosen to retreat. Now she gave him a grudging little nod, as though prepared at last to relent.

‘So you've decided I make a difference.'

‘All the difference,' he murmured fervently, then added disconsolately: ‘Only you've been so cold. I don't seem to make much difference for you.'

‘Don't you?'

Her eyes seemed to cloud. Then, unobserved by the others, she suddenly lifted his hand and set her teeth in his forefinger, a sharp painful bite that went through the skin.

‘That ought to show you if I'm cold,' she said. Then, at the sight of his face as instinctively he nursed the hurt, she began to giggle. ‘Serve you right, for insulting me these last two weeks.'

Next day Bert took them to the races. He had tickets for the paddock and the club enclosure, also a stable tip for the big race. Nothing could go wrong, nothing, nothing. The horse, Maiden Palm, which Moray backed on his advice, romped home, a winner by three lengths. This was living, this was life! And Doris was being nicer, much nicer, to him. It was as though, having suitably punished him for his past defections, she had finally made up her mind to forget them.

On the day after, they visited the famous Zoological Gardens, crossed to Howrah, and viewed, at a discreet distance, the burning ghats by the Hoogly, drove out to the Royal Calcutta Golf Club for tea, finished with a trip down-river to Sutanati. Money opened the door everywhere. Bert on holiday was a spender, a lavish tipper; Moray saw hundred-rupee notes materialise inexhaustively from Bert's wallet, pass expertly to expectant palms. How wonderful not to pinch and scrape, to count every miserable coin in a penury he had known all his days, but instead to have money, real money, more than enough to enjoy all the good things of life.

Time flew past as one exhilarating event followed another in swift succession. Moray simply let himself go, inhibiting every warning thought, blocking out the past and the future, living only in the present. Yet always the date of the
Pindari's
departure drew near. When it was announced that she would sail on the following Tuesday, the fever in his blood was at its peak. Everything he had longed for all his life was here, ready to his hand, if only he would reach out and take it. Holbrook, suave and amiable, had not again pressed his offer: this had been made and still stood, the solid offer of a man of substance, awaiting Moray's reply. Mrs Holbrook, through increasing hints and promptings, strongly wished and hoped that he would accept. Bert, however, had no doubts whatsoever on the subject. On Friday afternoon when he came in from the Bengal Club, where he had a guest membership, he found Moray in the hotel lounge and drew up a chair beside him.

‘I've got a spot of good news, Dave.' They had almost from the beginning been on terms of first-name intimacy. ‘I've been trying to find someone who might sub for you on the return voyage. Well, just now at the club I ran into an I. M.S. doctor going home on leave, fellow by the name of Collins. He jumped at the chance of a free trip with pay. He's our man.'

As though stung by a wasp, Moray sat up in his chair. Bert's unexpected announcement, and the assumption of accomplished fact with which he made it, had finally brought the matter to a head. A sudden wave of weakness went over him and, yielding limply, he felt he must at long last unburden himself. After all, to whom could he better disclose and explain his predicament than to a good fellow like Bert?

‘Look here, Bert,' he said, haltingly. ‘You know I'd naturally … very much like to accept your father's offer … and especially to work with you. But … I wonder if I ought …'.

‘Good Lord, why not? Dorrie apart, we need a medico in the business. We like you. You like us. I hate to stress it, old boy, but for you it's an absolute snip. You know how dear old Wagglespear put it – “There is a tide in the affairs of men.”'

‘But, Bert …' he went on abjectly, then broke off. Yet he had to say it, though every word was dragged up from the pit of his stomach. ‘There's someone … a girl … waiting for me at home.'