The Judas Tree (15 page)

‘I needn't say how much I appreciate your interest in me, sir. But naturally, with such an important decision to be made, I'd have to think it over.'

‘Do that, lad,' said Holbrook with an encouraging nod. ‘The more ye think on it the better you'll like it. And don't forget my bit of advice. When a good thing comes your way, take it.'

Moray went below to his cabin, and shut himself in. He wanted to be alone – not to consider this extraordinary offer, for he had not the slightest intention of accepting it, but, simply for his own satisfaction, to reason in detail how the thing had come about. In the first place, there was no doubt but that Dorrie's parents had taken to him from the start. Mrs Holbrook especially had shown great partiality and had lately become almost maternal in her attitude. Old Holbrook was a tougher article, but he too had been won over, either through his wife's persuasion, or through an actual liking for Moray. In the second place, so far as could be gathered, there would be a definite advantage to Holbrook and his son Bert in the acquisition of an active and clever young doctor for this new American venture. So far so good, thought Moray; but the answer was not yet conclusive. A third decisive motive must have operated to bring the two other factors together.

Moray shook his head unconsciously, in self-disparagement, in immediate renunciation of all conceit, yet there was no escaping the fact that Doris herself must have had an important part in the development of this wholly unexpected situation. Even if he had not the evidence of Mrs Kindersley's recent remarks, there was proof enough in Dorrie's own behaviour. She was not the love-sick type, she would not sigh and moon around, but that look in her eye had a specific meaning that only a fool would misconstrue. Add to this the influence which, as a spoiled only daughter, she exercised over parents who were accustomed to yielding to her wishes, and in this instance willing to see her settled in a suitable marriage, and the answer was complete.

During these reflections Moray had been frowning. Now, looking at himself in the glass, he gave a short, troubled laugh. Doris had really gone in off the deep end – head over heels. No, no, it wasn't funny, not a bit of it. On the contrary – adjusting his expression – he felt put out and embarrassed, although no doubt it was flattering to be sought after and to have a rich, attractive girl so ‘ completely gone on him' – Mrs Kindersley's absurd phrase came to him again, making him smile – particularly when those moments on the upper deck, and others, came to mind, as they did now, with a sudden disturbing rush.

He checked himself, looked at his watch – that fine Patek Philippe – which showed five minutes to six. Good Lord! He'd forgotten about his surgery hour. He'd have to rush. Life was really exciting these days.

But before he left the cabin he went to his bedside chest and took out the locket Mary had given him. Gazing at her dear sweet face in the little snapshot, a rush of tenderness overwhelmed him. He murmured emotionally:

‘As if I'd give you up, my own darling girl.'

Yes, her image would protect him. In future he would be calm and composed, pleasant and agreeable of course, but inflexible to any of
that
nonsense. Only ten days remained before they would be in Calcutta. He swore by all he held dear that be would maintain this attitude of discretion until the danger was past, and the voyage over.

The ten days had passed, they were now in the delta of the Hoogly, and Moray, alone in his surgery, viewing that period in retrospect, found every reason to be satisfied with himself. Yes, he had kept his word. At the captain's dinner, a hilarious affair of paper streamers, toy trumpets, and false noses, he had been a model of discretion. Indeed, he had done better. Resolved not to allow Doris to make an exhibition of herself, and him, before the entire ship, when O'Neil read out the sports prize winners he stood up, diffidently yet calmly, and with an unexpectedness that took everyone by surprise.

‘Captain Torrance, Mr O'Neil, ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission may I say that Miss Holbrook and I fully understood from the start that as one of the ship's officers I was not really eligible to compete in these events. We only went in for the fun of the thing and although we were lucky enough to win, we've both completely agreed we couldn't possibly accept the prizes, which should go in all the events to the runners-up.'

When he sat down, instead of the few desultory handclaps that might have broken out, there was a sudden and sustained eruption of genuine applause. The Holbrooks were delighted, for even they had at last begun to sense the general feeling; Mrs Kindersley went up, smiling, for her tea service; and afterwards the captain actually gave him a word of approval. Only Doris reacted unfavourably with a very dirty look.

‘Why the devil did you do that?'

‘Just for a change I thought you might like to be popular.'

‘Popular my tits. I wanted them to boo us.'

He danced only two dances with her, drank no more than a single glass of champagne, then, on the plea of having letters to write, excused himself and retired to his cabin.

After that, while never easy, it was less difficult. He avoided the boat deck where she usually sat, and when they did meet adopted a tone that was light and jocular. Beyond that, he kept himself strictly busy – the approaching landfall made his plea of extra work a plausible excuse. What Doris thought he did not know: following the dinner she had developed a habit of looking at him with narrowed, almost mocking eyes. Occasionally she smiled, and once or twice, when he made a simple remark, burst out laughing. Certainly her parents suspected nothing; they were more marked in their attentions to him than ever.

He sighed suddenly – it had really been quite a strain – then, rising, he locked up the surgery and went on deck. On the starboard side a group of passengers had gathered, viewing the river bank with an interest made greater by long days at sea. Tall coconut palms rose above the muddy shore lit by a flash of tropical birds, natives knee deep in the yellow water were throwing and drawing their circular nets, catamarans heeled and rippled past, the ship was barely moving, almost stationary, awaiting the river pilot. Amongst the others were the Holbrooks, and finding safety in numbers. Moray joined them. Immediately Mrs Holbrook excitedly took his arm.

‘We're so hoping that our Bert will be coming aboard with the pilot … not that it's easy …'.

As she spoke a motor launch shot from the sandy, palm-lined shore and bobbed alongside the ship, and another figure was observed, looking upwards and waving, beside the uniformed pilot.

‘It
is
our Bert,' joyfully exclaimed Mrs Holbrook, and she added proudly to her husband: ‘Trust Bert to have managed it.'

He was on board and hugging all three of them within a few minutes, a fair, fattish, pink-faced, jolly fellow of about thirty-one or two, wearing a sportily cut, tight-waisted tussore silk suit solar topee at an angle, fine two-tone buckskin shoes and a startling club tie. Bert, indeed, though inclined to flesh and, as now appeared when he removed his topee, rather thin on the top, seemed something of a dandy, exhibiting gold in his teeth and, on his person, certain articles of unessential jewellery. His eyes, alight with good-fellowship, were agreeably blue though they protruded slightly and had a faintly glassy sheen. His ready laugh, full of bonhomie and sportsmanship, a real back-slapping laugh, echoed across the deck. Too much thyroid, but a good sort, thought Moray, who had been standing some paces away, as Bert came forward to be introduced to him.

Their meeting was cordial – anyone, Moray surmised, might be an old friend of Bert's within a couple of hours – but he could see that as yet Dorrie's brother had no inkling of his close friendship with the family, so he soon took off tactfully for his cabin. At lunch, however, when Bert and his father came down from the bar, Moray, already seated at table, discovered a fraternal arm around his shoulders while a well-primed voice exhaled into his ear:

‘Didn't rumble you were
with
us, doc. Couldn't be more delighted if I'd won the Calcutta Sweep. We'll have a regular old chinwag later.'

The slow progress up-river gave them, as Bert put it, plenty of time to get together, and it was not long before Moray realised that while Bert might be a sport, a dasher and a josher, just a little flashy perhaps, and with a strong tendency towards pink gins at any hour of the day, he had, like his father, a good heart and a strong sense of family feeling. Moreover, it became equally apparent that for all his gush and gusto Bert had, as his mother put it, a head on his shoulders. He soon revealed himself as a thoroughly knowledgeable fellow, and when it came to business would certainly be a very cool customer with a capacity for getting things done. He had travelled extensively for the firm, had recently spent three months in the United States, and was full of the opportunities and excitements of New York. He talked well, with a man-of-the-world air, a kind of easy intimate verve that exuded cheerfulness and good-fellowship.

In his company Moray found the river passage all too short. He felt an actual disappointment when they reached Calcutta and the
Pindari
, churning the muddy water, began manoeuvring into Victoria Dock while the usual pandemonium of debarkation descended upon the ship. Amidst the uproar Bert remained cool and collected, everything was arranged and under control, speed and efficiency were the order of the day. As they came into the dock his long open Chrysler car and a truck were drawn up, waiting alongside. With his parents and Doris he came down the baggage gangway, first off the ship. Three stewards followed with the luggage. In the customs shed, while other passengers hung about interminably, a nod from Bert to the chief babu saw the Holbrooks through without formality. Then off they rolled in the big car to their reservations at the North Eastern Hotel.

All this happened so fast it left Moray somewhat dashed. There had been goodbyes of course, but hurried ones, given with such preoccupation as to leave him with the unsatisfactory and slightly painful impression of having been rather summarily discarded. Naturally, he was not at liberty to accompany them, yet he felt there might have been definite mention of a future meeting. However, as the
Pindari
would be two weeks in harbour, loading teak, tea, rubber and cotton goods, he told himself that he would have an opportunity to be with them later on. In any event, was it not best that they should have gone, leaving him free of all conflict, his mind undisturbed, at peace? He began to busy himself with his official duties. He was occupied most of the forenoon and when the last passenger had finally quitted the ship his first reaction was one of mild relief. The pressures exerted on him had been exacting: it would be good to relax.

By that evening a sudden inexplicable depression descended upon him, nor did it lift during the days that followed. The captain had taken up his usual quarters on shore and O'Neil, departing gaily for a trip along the coast to Kendrapara, had left Jones, the second mate, an elderly uncommunicative Welshman, to supervise the routine operations. Jones, a frustrated man, stuck with a master's ticket in a subordinate position, had never had much time for Moray, and now he more or less ignored him. He spent much of his day bent over paperback thrillers in the dock canteen, reading and picking his nose, leaving the work in hand to the quartermaster. In the evening he shut himself in his quarters and played his accordion with mournful unction. He never went ashore except to buy ivory elephants to take home to his wife. Already, he assured Moray, he had a glass-cabinetful in his semi-detached house in Porthcawl.

The empty ship, moored to the filthy, mosquito-infested dock, exposed to the racket of unloading, the endless high chatter of the native stevedores, the scream of winches and the rattle of cranes, was unrecognisable as the noble vessel which had so buoyantly breasted the blue water. It made a miserable lodging. The heat was sweltering, mosquitoes swarmed into his cabin, kept him awake at night with their shrill menacing ping, obliged him to take precautionary measures against malaria. Fifteen grains of quinine a day lowered his spirits further. To make matters worse, the agent had issued an advice that the mail boat had been delayed by a strike at Tilbury and would not arrive until the following week. Moray felt himself even more deserted through the absence of letters, and more and more his melancholy thoughts turned towards his departed friends.

Why on earth did he not hear from the Holbrooks? Why … why … why? First with irritation, then with anxiety, and finally with all the heart-sinking of hope deferred, he kept asking himself that question. It seemed inconceivable that they should have forgotten him, cast him off as a reject, someone they had used on the voyage but had now decided they did not want. Yet this mortifying thought grew within him. He pictured them in their de luxe hotel, every moment of their day delightfully filled with entertainment and sight-seeing, new faces and new friends around them. Amidst such distractions it might after all be easy to forget. And Doris: no doubt she had quickly found another interest, she who had been crazy about him. He winced jealously, between apprehension and anger. This was the most tormenting thought of all. Only his pride and the dread of a rebuff kept him from ringing her at the North Eastern.

In an effort to occupy himself he essayed a tentative expedition ashore. But the docks were miles from the city proper, he could not find a gharry, and after losing himself amongst a huddle of ramshackle huts where squatting natives squirted scarlet betel juice into the pervading dust, he finally acknowledged defeat, and plodded back to the ship, with the wretched sensation that he had reverted to the drab and dismal days of his youth.

It was then that he began really desperately to miss the Holbrooks, and all that he had enjoyed in their society. What a wonderful family they were – how hospitable, generous, and – now he made no bones about it – so rich! He'd never have the luck to meet such people again. Mrs Holbrook was sweet, so kind and motherly. Bert was such a good sort; they had taken to each other on sight. And the offer the old man had made him, admitting that he couldn't accept it, was fantastically favourable, the chance of a lifetime. Never would such a golden opportunity recur. Never. By comparison his future at the little Glenburn Hospital was dimmed to drab insignificance. And he had called himself ambitious.