The Empire Trilogy (151 page)

Presently, when the rain had stopped, Walter and Joan made their way back through the compound beside pools of rainwater which were now reflecting the stars. Father and daughter did not speak as they made their way through the drenched garden but they did not have to: they understood each other perfectly. Abdul, the old major-domo, was waiting for them, concerned that they should have got such a soaking.

‘What news, Master?'

‘Good news, Abdul!' replied Walter in the conventional manner, but as he went upstairs to change his clothes he thought: ‘Yes, good news!'

‘Well, I suppose it
might
be true,' the Major was saying doubtfully. ‘One never knows. I was in Harbin in 1937 and there was still a lot of White Russians there at the time. A lot of the poor devils were starving, too.'

The Major and Matthew were sitting in the office which had once been old Mr Webb's. Matthew, drained of all energy, had at last managed to leave his bed and drag himself as far as his father's desk where he sat drowsing over an untidy pile of reports, accounts and miscellaneous papers concerning the rubber industry. The Major, filled with concern by the young man's sombre and listless frame of mind, attempted from time to time to engage him in cheerful conversation. But these days what was there to be cheerful
about?
Only the subject of Vera Chiang had aroused a tiny spark of interest in the patient: Matthew had remembered a dream conversation between Vera and Joan in which Vera had claimed that her mother was a Russian princess and her father a Chinese tea-merchant … or something of the sort. What did the Major think of it? The Major, it turned out, had heard the same story from Vera with one or two added details and had politely suspended disbelief. After all, far-fetched though it sounded, one never knew. Stranger things had happened in that part of the world in the last few years.

‘By the way, where is she? I thought she was supposed to have a room here still.'

‘One of Blackett and Webb's vans came to pick up her belongings the other day. Not that they needed a van, mind you. There was only a small bag and a parcel or two. I gather Walter wanted her moved out for some reason, he didn't say why. But she's a friendly sort of girl and I expect she'll look in to say hello one of these days.' The Major stood up. ‘I must go and do some work. Monty said he'd be dropping in to see you presently.'

Matthew had begun to drowse over his papers once more when Monty suddenly appeared.

‘Congratulations,' he said. Monty was looking preoccupied for some reason.

‘How d'you mean?'

‘Well, I hear you and Joan are thinking of teaming up.'

‘Oh, it hasn't quite come to that, has it? I mean, I know your father did say something the other night about it being a good idea, or something on those lines. But I don't think anything, well,
definite
was decided, you know … At least that was my impression. After all …'

But Monty merely shrugged; he did not seem particularly interested in the matter. He said vaguely: ‘I expect I got hold of the wrong end of the stick … But from what they've been saying I thought they were planning a wedding … You know, bridesmaids and all that rubbish.' Monty collapsed into a chair and put his feet up on Matthew's desk, upsetting a tumbler full of pencils as he did so but making no effort to gather them up again. ‘I suppose this means you aren't going to want to come in with me and the other two chaps in sharing this Chinese filly,' he said morosely, ‘that, is, if you and Joan
are
teaming up. It's going to make it damned expensive for the rest of us,' he added accusingly.

‘But Monty …'

‘The other two are regular fellows. Great sports. And it's not as if there were enough white women to go round (if there were I'd tell you). I don't suppose you know that there's only one to every fifty white blokes.'

‘I told you ages ago, Monty, that I wasn't interested. It's not my cup of tea.'

‘Oh, all right, all right. Don't go on about it. It doesn't matter to me whether you come in or not, though you'll be missing a splendid opportunity. That's your look-out, though.' Monty sighed heavily. ‘I really came over to explain about the replanting of rubber trees on your Johore estate. The Old Man said I ought to keep you in the picture though you're probably not interested. The answer is simply that it's more profitable to replant now than to go on tapping.'

‘But how can it be? I thought there was someone clamouring for every scrap of rubber we produce.'

‘It's to do with the excess profits tax … You don't want me to go into it, do you?'

But Matthew evidently did want him to, and so, with a much put-upon air, Monty removed his feet from the table and began to explain. When the war had broken out in 1939 a sixty per cent excess profits tax had been slapped on all sterling companies either at home or abroad. Blackett's hadn't minded too much at first. Propitious years, as far as they were concerned, had been chosen for the calculation of ‘standard profits'. ‘We found we could still keep our hands on a satisfactory chunk of the profits. All well and good. But then I'll be damned if they don't increase the excess profits tax to one hundred per cent! Can you beat it?' Monty, his eyes blue and bulging like his father's, stared at Matthew in disgust.

At the same time the price of rubber had risen and more of it could be released under the Restriction Scheme. ‘The next thing we find is that we can make the bloody “standard profits” (all we're allowed, the British Government confiscating the rest) by producing a
smaller amount of rubber
than we're actually allowed to release to the market! Can you beat it? What's the point in producing more when we don't make any profit by doing so?'

Monty's gaze had momentarily become troubled for, although on the whole he believed he did understand his father's commercial strategy (and admired it, too, his father was hot stuff when it came to spotting opportunities), there was one of Walter's initiatives for which a sound commercial reason had so far eluded him: the signing of contracts with the Americans, for huge quantities of rubber for which no shipping could be found. The accumulation for this rubber on the quays directly contradicted, as far as Monty could see, the other policy of not producing rubber from which no profit could be made. The excess profits tax would apply just as much to the American contracts. It was a mystery which Monty could not explain … though there must be an explanation. Monty had even, for want of anything better, come close once or twice to suspecting his father of patriotism. But no, it surely could not be that. He had, of course, asked Walter for an explanation, but he had shown signs of extreme exasperation and had declined to reply. However, the truth was at last beginning to dawn on Monty in the past few days following the Japanese attack. It was a terrible truth, if Monty had guessed correctly, but was there any other explanation? Walter, in his omniscience, had foreseen the Japanese attack. More than that, he had foreseen the capture of Malaya or destruction of Singapore. He was actually wagering on the capture or destruction of all that rubber and planning to demand compensation from the Government in some more healthy part of the world! True, this did seem, even to Monty, an extravagant wager, but what other reason could there be? His father never did anything in business without a sound reason.

‘Anyway,' he said, returning his attention to Matthew, ‘we decided that the only sensible thing to do was to replant … Why? Because replanting expenses are allowable against tax.'

‘Even if it means replanting perfectly healthy and productive trees!' exclaimed Matthew.

‘Certainly! Because we're replanting them with these newly developed clones I was telling you about. When they're mature in a few years time they'll produce almost twice as much per tree.'

‘But what about the War Effort? Everyone's crying out for rubber
now
not in a few
years
' time. And we're cutting down the trees that produce the stuff and-planting seedlings in their place. And we aren't even slaughter-tapping, as far as I can make out! It's madness.' Casting off his apathy Matthew had sprung to his feet and now gripped Monty's arm with one hand and the lapels of his jacket with the other. Monty uttered a hoarse cry of alarm and flinched away under this onslaught, convinced that he was about to be assaulted by Matthew whose reason clearly swung on very fragile hinges. Monty was not surprised: he had suspected as much for some time. Next time he would see to it that his father dealt with this madman.

‘Well, it wasn't my idea,' he murmured soothingly. ‘Don't blame me. You'll have to take it up with Father, though I must say …' he added more confidently as Matthew released him and began to pace up and down the room, waving one fist certainly, but otherwise not looking so dangerous, ‘…that I really don't think you should take this pious attitude the whole time. People don't go in for that sort of thing out here. As a matter of fact, they think it's deuced odd, if you want to know. But of course, you must suit yourself,' he went on hurriedly, as Matthew turned towards him once more.

‘But it's not that, Monty … it's a matter of principle.'

‘Yes, yes, of course it is,' agreed Monty. ‘Anyway, I must be on my way now. I've a lot to do. You don't want to change your mind about that Chinese girl… No, no, I can see you don't. It's quite all right. Well, goodbye!' And Monty beat a hasty retreat, thankful to have escaped without any broken bones.

Matthew sank back into his chair, exhausted once more. He poured himself a drink of iced water from the vacuum flask on his desk and gulped it quickly; he must soon have a talk with Walter and try to persuade him to stop all this ridiculous replanting. How much had already been carried out? He searched in vain among the papers on his desk but he could not find the figures he wanted before lethargy once more stole over him. With an effort he roused himself and went outside to the tinroofed garage where the Major was performing a laborious inspection of the trailer-pump. He intended to discuss the replanting issue with the Major and installed himself in the Major's open Lagonda nearby: but the heat and his lassitude were too much for him and soon he was drowsing again with his feet poking out of the open door while the Major inspected and cleaned the pump's sparking-plugs. The Major suspected that it would not be very long before this machine found itself in service. Meanwhile, The Human Condition, diminutive, elderly and frail, dozed perilously under one wire-spoked wheel of the motor-car which was on a slight gradient and might decide to roll forward at any moment, putting an end to its miseries.

The Major was thinking of Vera Chiang as he worked, and of Harbin in 1937. ‘How hard life can be for refugees!' he mused, squinting at a sparking-plug (his eyesight was no longer what it had been). ‘We don't realize in our own comfortable, well-ordered lives what it must be like to lose everything in one of these political upheavals that bang and clatter senselessly round the world like thunderstorms uprooting people right and left.' He sighed and the sparking-plug which lay in his palm grew blurred and changed into a picture of Harbin … what was it? … four, no, five years ago almost. Harbin had surely been one of the most depressing places on earth.

That had been on the Major's first trip out East … when he had suddenly, on an impulse, decided to give up the settled, comfortable life he was leading in London and see the world, visit François in Indo-China, visit Japan, too, and see what all the fuss was about … see what life itself was all about before it was too late and old age descended on him. You might have thought that Harbin was a Russian city from the great Orthodox cathedral towering over Kitaiskaya and Novogorodnaya Street, and from the Russian shop-signs you saw, the vodka, the samovars, the Russian cafés and the agreeable sound of the Russian language being spoken everywhere. But it was a Russian city which had turned into a nightmare of poverty for the White Russians who had been washed eastwards on the tidal wave of the Revolution. How helpless they were! How few human beings, the Major thought with a sigh, can exert by hard work, thrift, intelligence or any other virtue the slightest influence on their own destiny! That was the grim truth about life on this planet.

Until Manchukuo had bought the Chinese Eastern Railway from the Soviet Government the year before the Major's visit, there had at least been a large contingent of Soviet railway employees in Harbin to patronize the Russian shops and cafés, but by the time he had arrived even this flimsy economic support had been pulled from under the refugees. The railwaymen had returned to Russia, leaving the refugees to destitution. At one time there had been 80,000 of them; by the time the Major had arrived this number had dwindled by half. Those young and strong enough had gone south to look for some means of support in a China which was itself ravaged by famine and bandit armies. Those who stayed in Harbin very often starved. The Major himself had seen ragged white men pulling rickshaws in Harbin.

Vera Chiang had spent her childhood and adolescence in Harbin: that much was certainly true for when the Major had questioned her about it she had known every corner of the city. Her mother had died there, ‘of a broken heart', she said sometimes; ‘of TB' she said at others. She had only been a child then. Her father had gone south to try to establish another business to replace the one he had lost in the Revolution in Russia, leaving her in a school run by American missionaries. Thus she had learned to speak English. How sad and lonely she had been! she had told the Major with a tear sparkling in her eye, while the Major murmured comfortingly; he had never been able to resist a woman in distress. But how much worse her life had become when a message, long-delayed, had reached her from her father. He was lying ill, broken by poverty, in Canton. ‘Selling the last of my mother's rings I set out …' Easily affected by feminine distress though he was, the Major had been assailed by misgivings at this point … But still, one never knew. One thing was certain: you had to account for Vera Chiang
somehow
! Her Russian recollections were not very convincing, though. Furs, and icicles on window-panes, and snow on the rooftops, steam hanging in the ‘biting air' from the horse's nostrils, and jewels winking at the throat of the noblewomen who had leaned over her cot, for she had been a baby at the time of the Revolution, of course, the sleigh's runners hissing in the snow as they glided east to escape the Bolsheviks, her own little black almond-shaped eyes completely surrounded by fur, gazing out over the interminable, frozen wastes of Russia. That sort of thing. It was not impossible, of course. Above all, it was the mother's rings that made the Major uneasy. The reason was this. In a Shanghai nightclub the Major had found himself talking to one of the hostesses, a beautiful Russian girl, also a princess, who after one or two decorous waltzes had confessed her predicament to him: the following morning, as soon as the pawnbroker's shop opened for business, she would have to pawn her mother's wedding ring in order to prevent her younger sister from selling herself as a prostitute. Good gracious! What a business! What could the Major do but try to help avert this calamity? Well, you see, the Major's dilemma was that
sometimes these stories were true
. Not very often, perhaps, but
sometimes.