The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy (66 page)

The rain dried. I returned to the street, smoking a big cigar. Everyone was emerging from shelter. I stood on the worn pavement, watching a road-sweeper who covered the hole where his nose had been with a leaf secured in place by a matchstick pushed into the matter beneath. It was hard to decide whether his trouble was syphilis or leprosy.

Then I saw Captain Boyer farther down the street.

He had a Dutch woman in tow. Impeding each other in so doing, they were climbing into the back seat of a rusty old car. They had emerged from a wine shop, in token of which the officer was clutching a bottle.

I paused a yard or so away and called Boyer's name. He did not look round. He and the woman had stuck in the door of the vehicle. All I could see of him was a leg, a backside, and an arm holding the bottle frenziedly by the neck, like a cripple trying to strangle a cat. Then the rest of him backed out, the woman fell inside, screaming resignedly, and he began to swear at her. Was it Boyer?

I tapped him on the back as he prepared for another assault on the car. His reaction time was slow. He began to look round only as he heaved himself into the back seat, so that he caught the peak of his hat and knocked it flying into the dark interior. Cuddling the bottle, he glared out at me.

‘Who are you? Where's my drink? Give me my cap back.'

The light was so bad that I still could not see his face properly.

‘Sar'nt Stubbs, sir, 2nd Mendips.'

His face protruded slowly out of the door, rather like paste oozing from a tube. The woman beat feebly on his back, under the impression that this would pull him back into the vehicle. His face was bevelled so as to climax in a nobly aquiline nose; all adjacent features were subordinate to his nose, with the possible exception of his eyebrows, which emphasised it as acanthus leaves emphasise the height of a Corinthian column. The eyebrow motif was echoed in his small black moustache, which hung sketchily above his lips. ‘Stubbs?' these lips muttered, blankly.

‘Sah.' I grinned. It
was
Captain Maurice Boyer, 2nd Royal Mendips.

‘So it blithering well is …'

Like the passing of a rainstorm out to the Straits of Malacca, blankness faded from his face, replaced by a sort of idiot joy. He had recognised me. He was insanely glad. It might have been his old mother standing there. Laboriously, he heaved himself out of the car on to the pavement. Once on his feet, he slapped my back in the area where prickly heat was at its most gregarious, and tried to force me into the black cavern of the car, where unknown and carnivorous womanhood awaited me. I hung back, breathing cigar smoke into his face. He coughed, and breathed booze into mine.

Coughing in my turn, I said, ‘Can I speak to you, sir? Personal and urgent.'

‘Course you can speak to me, Stubbs. Good to see you, man, always liked you. Burma days. Kohima, the
DC'S
tennis court – what a nightmare! Climb into this chariot with me and my light o' love, come and have a drinkies with us. In you go – don't know anyone else in all flaming Medan.'

He encouraged me forward. As I bent to climb in, the woman was screaming from the back seat, in a Dutch accent, ‘There's no rewm for any man more in this fewking automobile!'

‘Move over, you difficult bitch,' snarled Boyer, plunging
in and trampling his cap underfoot. He pulled me after him; I followed just behind the bottle.

As I gulped the foetid air inside the car, I could distinguish sweat, cheap perfume, sick, and another aroma which I disliked. Boyer fell across me and slammed the door shut. The unseen woman fell across him, so that I got frowsy blonde locks in my face. They both screamed with what could have been laughter and the driver started the car. I began to laugh, too – I'd dropped my cigar.

Boyer seized the woman with professional ease – not a difficult feat, considering that she was taking no evasive action – and began to talk to her and me at the same time.

‘Men's welfare, my dear, don't grumble. Drinkies ahoy! Good old Signaller Stubbs, now Sergeant well-deserved, one of the best lads in the regiment. Both under fire together. Fire! Fire!'

‘Not fire, only smewk,' she said, fanning at the nauseating clouds which were drifting about as we gathered speed. I had ignited the floor mat. I was fumbling at their feet for the cigar butt, pretending to be drunk in case Boyer suspected me of feeling the woman's legs.

‘Dear God, the privations! Never forget it. Drive on, driver, damn you, faster, faster. Drinkies ahoy! Need a pee.' Cough, cough, cough. ‘What're you doing here, anyway, Stubbs? What's the name of that restaurant, my dear? Christ, I need a pee – step on it, driver, damn you!'

We soon found ourselves at the
Bunga Rampaian
, where I had eaten with Margey scarcely an hour earlier. We tumbled out of the car amid clouds of billowing smoke. The upholstery was inarguably on fire, though it had not enough strength, given the humidity of the night, to burst into flame. Boyer uttered the cry of one bringing forth young and relieved himself against the concrete stilts of the building. Like his cap, his bottle of drink lay forgotten in the car.

Staggering up the restaurant steps behind Boyer, I found myself next to his Dutch light o' love. Her name was Raddle, or so I received it from Boyer. She was fat yet withered, two undesirable attributes infrequently found together. Her hair
was blonde, and curled wherever possible. Her ample trunk was encased in a dress of navy blue which shone like the seat of old trousers. The looks she gave me were either of animosity or amorousness; both possibilities scared me. Three Margeys could have found refuge in her blue dress.

Inside the restaurant, the five-piece band was in full charge. None of your native muck at this time of night. Gone was ‘
Terang Boelan
'; instead, we had genuine airs from European operettas:

The music appeared to upset Boyer, who twirled about a bit in the entrance, knocking over some flowers. Raddle skipped forward and grabbed his arm, saying, ‘Attempt not to lewk so fewking drunk, you twirp.' Her English was very fluent.

Up came the manager who knew Margey. He did not recognise me. Waving his hands, he announced that no more food could be served because of the imminence of curfew. It was the fastest bit of character-reading I had seen in a while.

‘Bring me a bottle of whisky, then,' said Boyer immediately. ‘Or I'll have your restaurant closed down for good.'

‘Sairtainly, sair, and maybe I bring you some nice kebabs, sair, for you and the lady and gentleman.'

Having shown himself so responsive to threats, the manager led us to a table by a window overlooking the river. Boyer waved expansively, threading his way between tables and leaving Raddle to take her chance – being corpulent, she had to make many a detour among the diners. ‘Grab yourself a seat, Stubbs. Drinkies ahoy!'

‘Sir, I'd be glad to have a word with you, if you can spare me just a moment. I didn't ought to sit down at the table with you, sir.'

He hammered on the table with his fist. ‘Damn it, man, take a seat. I said – haven't seen you for months, what's the matter with you?'

I stood at attention to remind him of his position in society.

‘Regulations, sir,
NCO
and officer, sir. No familiarity. No offence, sir.'

He made such a violent gesture of contempt that he swept a sauce pot into Raddle's lap just as she was sitting down. Unable to find lodgement on that convex surface, it fell to the floor and rolled under an adjacent table. ‘To the devil with regulations, Stubbs, I'm giving you an order. Sit yourself down.'

Still I hesitated – to be truthful, there was a gob of sauce on the vacant chair – but the woman, who was fairly well oiled herself, said in a high voice, ‘Sergeant, unless you are a complete fewl, will you sit in that fewking chair and keep this drunken horse's arse in quietness.'

I sat.

A waiter presented himself, carrying a bottle of whisky, three glasses, a small flower in a small vase, and a plate of steaming kebabs with chunks of pineapple and mangusteen nestling between chunks of skewered meat, covered in a hot sauce. Uttering shrieks of various magnitudes, we forgot our similarities and tucked in.

From where I sat, I could observe Johnny Mercer, his bird, and the rest of the Dutch contingent gathered round a corner table; Mercer was signalling frantically at me through a haze of tobacco smoke. One by one, the rest of his party joined in the gesticulation, pointing, shaking heads, and behaving so wildly that I began to suspect they had detected a bomb under my seat. I looked. There wasn't. They shook their heads and renewed their pointing. I shook my head in return, gestured questioningly at myself. Nodding from them. Blank looks from me. I turned to see Boyer staring nonplussed at my performance.

‘Are you pissed, old chap?' he enquired, pointing his kebab accusingly.

‘Sir, excuse me.' I got up and forced my way over to Mercer's table, ignoring the protests of other diners on the way. His rabble gave a cheer as I approached. Just to look
at them made you feel slightly drunk. Six empty wine bottles stood or leaned on the table.

‘What are you on about, you nutter?'

Johnny leaned heavily on the shoulders of the girl next to him, forcing her breasts down into a bowl of prawns, and waved four flabby fingers at me. ‘Here, Stubbsy, 'mazing coincidence … You were looking all over for him, weren't you? Boyer, you tool, it's Boyer,
Boyer!
Sitting at your table!'

‘Jesus …' I looked down at him in pity. ‘Pissed again. Mercer. I came in here with him, didn't I?' I tottered back to Boyer's table and took a steadying draught of whisky. An involuntary convulsion seized my digestive tract. Grasping the bottle and my throat, I stared at the blurred print on the label.
BLACK TARTAN WOMBAT WISKEY
Made in Scottland, Bottled by P. V. Ramakrishnan Bottling Mart, Kuala Lumpur.

‘Good stuff,' said Boyer. ‘Better than that piss we had in the car. Drink up, cheers,
salamat datang!
'

‘I thought you were in Padang, sir,' I said, shuddering at the dire things happening inside me as the whisky deployed its forces.

Raddle had finished painting her lips and studying the effect in a small mirror. Now she decided to take some part in the conversation.

‘We flew from Padang via the
RAF
this morning, Stewbs.'

‘Did you really, Raddle?'

‘Maurice kindly accompanied me since I was scared to flew. I sail for the Netherlands via
RAPWI
on the ship
Van Heutsz
tomorrow. Good-bye to Sumatra after four ghastly years. Tonight we celebrate, Stewbs! Medan's a step nearer civilisation! Cheers! To the
Van Heutsz!
' She raised her glass high before drinking.

The
Van Heutsz
was a four-and-a-half-thousand-ton symbol of hope to any non-military personnel wishing to escape from Sumatra. Just to be allowed aboard that ancient vessel, to become one of its crowded deck passengers, was to savour the redemptive quality of a new life. Raddle's eves shone at the prospect.

‘Golly, she's lovely, Stubbs, isn't she?' said Boyer, looking from one to the other of us as if trying to decide which was which. ‘Be honest, you can be honest. Isn't she lovely? Poignant, too. A fine woman, Dutch as they come. Maastrich born.' He shook his head. ‘I want to marry her but she's married already. She was raped by the Japs, of course.' He laughed and belted into the Black Tartan Wombat. ‘That's life.'

‘Talking of marriage, sir, I wanted to ask you something personally –'

Raddle screamed. ‘This whisky's
mewk
! Oooh, Stewbs that fewking aeroplane from Padang, my gosh! What bumping we had. I was so terribly sick, you know.' She gestured to make the scene more vivid to me, clutching her throat to illustrate. ‘Sick over my seat, sick over the flewer, sick over my frock, sick over my handbag, sick over Maurice – terrible!'

‘You were a bit icky, darling,' Boyer said gallantly. ‘“
Per ardua ad nauseam
”.' He laughed and sweated a bit more, splashing more Black Tartan Wombat into our glasses.

‘There's a certain Chinese girl, sir –'

‘I can't wait to get on the
Van Heutsz
tomorrow, it'll be the end of four years bad lewk for me.'

‘Say you'll miss me, darling, say you'll miss your Maurice!'

She started screaming in a confidential manner. ‘I just want to get back to the Netherlands, to my fewking home in Harlingen. It's been snewing hard there this winter. Snew! Snew! Holy Virgin, snew and home cewking! Fresh Tampax!'

As this conversation developed, the restaurant was closing.

The last of the diners, all fairly tight, were being bundled towards the door. Johnny and his bird went out with the tide. The band offered a final selection from
The Merry Widow
, during which Boyer sang with ragged vehemence, ‘Though you sweat, Though you shave, They forget what you gave' – and crept off home to their terrible bamboo beds. Eventually, we also were bundled off the premises with
Raddle, practically in mid-stream, hymning her homeland.

Immediately we were outside, all restaurant lights were switched off. A wall of dark descended. Cries of protest sounded all round as the last of the revellers floundered about in search of vehicles.

Looking at the situation in cold blood, our vehicle was simple to detect, since a cloud of unpleasant smoke drifted from it; we had but to follow our noses to be home and dry. Unfortunately, an inner compulsion made us move with undersea sloth, bumping into palm trees as we went. Black Tartan Wombat is, in one respect at least, superior to any other wiskeys made in Scottland: it can ferret through the stomach lining, up the jugular vein, and into the cerebral hemispheres like a fit of greased lightning destroying anything it meets.