The Judas Tree (17 page)

Bert stared at him for a long moment, then went into fits of laughter.

‘You'll kill me, Dave. Why, I've got girls waiting for me all over Europe – and pretty soon my little Eurasian fancy will be waiting for me in Calcutta.'

‘But you don't understand. I've promised to … to marry her.'

Bert laughed again, briefly, rather sympathetically and understandingly, then he shook his head.

‘You're young for your age, Dave, and still a bit green behind the ears – that's partly why we've all taken to you, I suppose. Why, if you knew girls as I do … You think they'll pine away and die if you give them the soldier's farewell? Not on your sweet mucking life – excuse my Hindustani. I'll lay you a level fiver your little friend will get over her disappointment and forget all about you in six months. As for your own feelings in that direction, which haven't struck me as too full of cayenne, remember what Plato or some other old Roman geezer said: “All women are alike in the dark.” Seriously, though, I've talked it over with Ma and the old man. We all think you're just the fellow for Dorrie. You'll steady her down. She needs a bit of ballast, for off and on she's,' he hesitated, ‘ she's had a spot of trouble with her nerves. And she'll give you a bit of tiddley-high which in my humble opinion will knock some of the wool off you and do you a power of good. She's had fellows before, mind you, she's no angel, but you're the one she's gone right overboard on, she damn well means to have you. And let's face it, old man, you've gone so far with us as a family, it would be a crime if you backed out now. So why don't you pass the word and we'll start ringing those old wedding bells? And now we'll have a couple of chota pegs and drink to the future. Boy – boy!' Leaning back in his chair, he shouted for the khidmutgar.

Although temporarily lulled by this jovial dismissal of his scruples, Moray did not find Bert's arguments altogether convincing or conclusive. He spent a troubled night and, awakening next morning still tense with indecision, decided he must at least go down to the ship and have a talk with Captain Torrance. It was only proper for him to enquire if Dr Collins might be an acceptable substitute, in the event … well, in the event that he was unable to make the return trip. The skipper was a sensible man whose advice was worth having; and besides, no one need know of his intention, the moment was favourable. Since Dorrie's mother had pleaded fatigue, nothing definite had been arranged in the way of sightseeing, and he had no engagement with the Holbrooks until the evening, when he was to meet them for the gala dinner and dance which was a regular Saturday night feature at the North Eastern. He got up, shaved and dressed and took a taxi to Victoria Dock.

The sight of the
Pindari
, now almost clear of dunnage, solid and familiar, struck a note of reality that was reassuring, even comforting, suggestive that once on board he might be safe, even from himself. He hastened up the gangplank. But when he reached the chart-room deck both cabins were locked, the quartermaster on duty told him that neither the captain nor Mr O'Neil was aboard. Going below, he could find only the assistant purser, who explained that none of the senior officers would be back from leave until Sunday evening.

‘The second mate's on the dock if you want to see him.'

Moray shook his head, turned slowly away.

‘By the by,' said the other, ‘ there's some mail for you.'

He went to his desk and fingered through a bundle of letters from which he handed over two. Moray, with a sudden constriction of his heart, recognised that one, rather thin, was from Willie, the other, thick and bulky, from Mary. He could not bring himself to open them. Later, he told himself. As he stepped off the ship to the dock, where the taxi still awaited him, he stuffed them into his inside pocket.

All that day Moray tried to summon up sufficient will, yet he could not bring himself to read the letters; the reproach of their pure and loving contents was more than he could face. And because he did not open them, because he feared them, he was no longer touched and contrite. Instead there crystallised in his mind an exasperation, almost a resentment, that they should have reached him at this crisis in his life. The letters, still sealed, swung him subconsciously towards Doris and all that the Holbrooks could offer him. Defensively, under the twin urges of money and sex, he set out to construct from his earliest beginnings a logical argument in his own favour: the loss of his parents, the unwanted child, the miseries of impoverished dependence, the superhuman efforts to get his medical degree. Surely he was due a rich reward, and now it was within his grasp. Could he be expected to throw it away, as though it were worthless?

True, there was Mary – he forced himself at least to think the name. But hadn't he been rushed into that affair, carried away by his impulsive nature, inexperience, and the romantic background in which he had discovered her. She too, no doubt, had been swept off her feet by those same untrustworthy and transient influences. He didn't want to hurt her or to leave her in the lurch, but he did owe something to himself. And who knew but what, later on, he might be able … well, to do something for her, to make up for his defection. He didn't quite know what, but it was a comforting possibility. Young men made mistakes, repented of them, and made amends – were forgiven. Must he be the exception?

This was his frame of mind when, still uncertain and undecided, he went down somewhat broodingly at eight o'clock to join the Holbrooks in the restaurant. Clearly his mood was not keyed to enjoyment, yet it was amazing and in the circumstances doubtless commendable how, not to put a damper on the party, he cast aside his personal problems and reacted to the lively welcome of his friends. Bert especially was in tremendous form, and the moment he set eyes on Doris he knew that she was in one of her sultry, over-charged moods. She had prepared herself with thoroughness and was wearing a short, sleeveless white dress, cut low in the neckline and embroidered with little crystal beads. It looked what it was, a most expensive piece of flimsiness. It did a great deal for her, and she knew it.

The dinner, which was luscious and prolonged, proved a further reviving influence, and when, after the dessert – a delectable compote of pineapple and persimmons served with chapattis – coffee and cognac were brought, Moray saw what an idiot he had been to mope and worry all day. Now he hadn't a care in the world. Presently they went into the ballroom where the old man had, as usual, done things in style. Champagne stood in an ice-pail beside their orchid-strewn table on the edge of the dance floor, facing the palm-fringed platform occupied by the scarlet-coated band.

‘We like to see the young folks enjoying themselves, don't we, Mother?' As they took their places Holbrook made the remark in a sentimental tone induced by several double brandies. ‘Couldn't you have found yourself a nice partner too, Bert?'

‘I would have, Dad, only I'm sorry I can't stay long,' said Bert, with a wink to Moray. ‘Got to see a dog about a man.'

‘Have a drop of bubbly before you go.'

The cork popped. They all had a glass of champagne. Then the lights were dimmed, the band struck up a waltz. Bert got to his feet with a theatrically formal bow to Dorrie that exposed and bisected his tight plump buttocks into two full moons,

‘May I claim family privilege, and have the honour, Miss Holbrook?'

They danced this first dance in brother-and-sister fashion, then, after downing a second glass of champagne, Bert breezily consulted his watch.

‘Good Lord, I must push off or that little poodle will be barking up the wrong tree. Be sure you all have a good time. Cheerio, chin-chin!'

‘Don't be too late, Bert dear,' remonstrated Mrs Holbrook. ‘You were last night'

‘Certainly not, Mater.' He bent and kissed her. ‘Only let's face it, ducky, Bert's a big boy now. See you bright and early in the morning.'

He's off to the little Eurasian, thought Moray. The band struck up a snappy one-step. Mrs Holbrook glanced at Moray, then at Doris, not smiling this time but with serious meaning, as though to say: You two now, and while you're about it make up your minds. Moray could not take the floor with confidence. Besides, he had sampled the cognac thoroughly after dinner, and it seemed to be going well with the champagne.

‘If I may say so, my dears,' Mrs Holbrook commented, when they returned, ‘you make a very handsome couple.'

Holbrook, smiling indulgently, just a trifle fuzzy, poured them both another glass of champagne. Then they danced again. They danced every dance together, and it seemed as though each time his arm encircled her she drew closer to him, so that every movement of her body provoked an answering movement of his, until they moved as one in a corresponding rhythm that throbbed along his nerves. He could feel that she was wearing very few clothes. At first he had made pretence at a few remarks, commenting on the other dancers and on the band, which was first rate, but she silenced him with a pressure of her arm,

‘Don't spoil it.'

Yet if she maintained silence, there was in her wide bright greedy eyes, which she kept fixed unremittingly upon his, something communicative, not an inquiry now, a message rather, impossible to misunderstand, both possessive and intense. Only once did she speak again when, with an impatient glance towards her parents, she murmured restively:

‘I wish they'd go.'

They did not, in fact, stay late. At half past ten Mrs Holbrook touched her husband, who was half asleep, on the shoulder.

‘Time we old folks were in bed.' Then, with a restraining smile: ‘You two can stay just a little while. But don't wait up too long.'

‘We won't,' Doris said briefly.

For the next number the lights were lowered, and as they swung round behind the band she said, a trifle unsteadily:

‘Let's take a turn outside.'

It was warm and still in the garden and dark under the high screen of greenery. She leaned back against the smooth bole of a great catalpa tree, still looking up at him. Trembling all over, he placed his arm behind her neck and kissed her. In response she pushed her pointed tongue between his lips. Then, as he pressed closer, the button on his cuff caught the string of seed pearls round her throat. The clasp gave way and pearls dropped into the low front of her dress.

‘Now you've done it,' she said, with a queer strained laugh, passing her hand across her throat. ‘ You'll have to find them for me.'

His head was whirling, his heart pounding like mad. He began to search for the necklace, first in the yoke of her dress, then moving between her firmly nippled breasts, further down over the smooth flatness beyond.

‘I'll tear your dress.'

‘Never mind the dress,' she said, in that same choked voice.

Then he discovered that she was wearing nothing beneath her frock and, since all the time she had the broken necklace in her hand, what he found was not the pearls. He forgot everything; all the suppressed desire of the past weeks went through him in a blinding rush.

‘Not here, you fool.' She broke away quickly. ‘In your room … in five minutes.'

He went straight upstairs, tore off his clothes, switched off the light and flung himself into the bed. A shaft of moonlight pierced the darkness as she came in, dosing the door behind her. She took off her dressing gown, stood stark naked, then parted the mosquito curtains. Her body had an almost sultry warmth as she wound her arms tightly round his neck and drew him towards her, fastening her mouth on his so that her teeth edged into his lower lip. She was breathing quickly and under her crushed breast he could hear the hot pulsing of her heart.

‘Quick,' she breathed. ‘Can't you see I'm dying for you?'

If he had not at once realised that she was not a virgin, now he would have known it by the nature of her response. When at last she lay back, though not releasing him, she gave a long-drawn-out sigh, then pulled his head down beside her on the pillow again.

‘You were good, darling. Was I?'

‘Yes,' he said in a low voice, and meant it.

‘What a lot of time we've wasted. Couldn't you see I wanted you, wanted you like mad, right from the start? But it's going to be perfect from now on. We'll tell them in the morning. Then we'll both be off with Bert to New York. Oh, God, couldn't you have seen how gone I am on you? I'll never have enough of you – you'll see.' With her tongue she touched, played with his lips, stroked his body with her finger tips. A sudden rigor passed over her. ‘Again,' she whispered, ‘only longer this time … and the next. It's so lovely, make it last.'

She remained with him till the first grey light of dawn.

That morning, after hilarious congratulations at breakfast, he took a walk to clear his head. He felt a trifle listless, but she was really the goods, he could scarcely wait until tonight, and of course there was the job, the money, and the future all secure. Damn it all, a fellow had to look after himself. In the dulled state of his mind, it was less difficult to shut out the past and think only of the future. Passing across the Howrah Bridge he leaned suddenly over the parapet and without looking, taking his hand from his inside pocket, dropped the two letters, still unopened, into the filthy, corpse-polluted waters of the sacred Ganges.

Dawn comes early in the Swiss Oberland. Its hurtful brightness and the clanging of the cowbells awoke him. As he had feared, the pheno-barbitone had failed to act, and in those hours of wakefulness he had relived every moment of those fatal, youthful months until, tortured, at three in the morning be had fumbled for a capsule of sodium anytal, which had given him a brief respite of total blackout. Now, with throbbing temples, deadened by the drug, he faced the situation dully yet with almost desperate resolution, aware that, at long last, he must take the decisive step.