Scoop-Evelyn-Waugh [27]
Presently Paleologue arrived to make his morning report to his master. He met Corker at the top of the stairs. "You got to have boy for yourself in this country," he said. "Yes," said Corker. "It seems I ought." "I fix him. I find you very good boy from Adventist Mission, read, write, speak English, sing hymns, everything." "Sounds like hell to me." "Please?" "Oh, all right, it doesn't matter. Send him along." In this way Paleologue was able to supply servants for all the newcomers. Later the passages were clustered with moon-faced mission-taught Ishmaelites. These boys had many responsibilities. They had to report their masters' doings, morning and evening, to the secret police; they had to steal copies of their masters' cables for Wenlock Jakes. The normal wage for domestic service was a dollar a week; the journalists paid five, but Paleologue pocketed the difference. In the meantime they formulated new and ingenious requests for cash in advance � for new clothes, funerals, weddings, fines, and entirely imaginary municipal taxes; whatever they exacted, Paleologue came to know about it and levied his share.
Inside the bedroom it was sunless, draughty and damp; all round there was rattling and shouting and tramping and the monotonous splash and patter and gurgle of rain. Corker's clothing lay scattered about the room. Corker sat on his bed stirring condensed milk into his tea. "Time you were showing a leg, old boy," he said. "Yes." "If you ask me we were all a bit tight last night." "Yes." "Feeling lousy?" "Yes." "It'll soon pass off when you get on your feet. Are my things in your way?" "Yes." Corker lit his pipe and a frightful stench filled the room. "Don't think much of this tobacco," he said. "Home grown. I bought it off a nigger on the way up. Care to try some?" "No, thanks," said William and rose queasily from his bed. While they dressed Corker spoke in a vein of unaccustomed pessimism. "This isn't the kind of story I'm used to," he said. "We aren't getting anywhere. We've got to work out a routine, make contacts, dig up some news sources, jolly up the locals a bit. I don't feel settled." "Is that my toothbrush you're using?" "Hope not. Has it got a white handle?" "Yes." "Then I am. Silly mistake to make; mine's green...but, as I was saying, we've got to make friends in this town. Funny thing, I don't get that sense of popularity I expect." He looked at himself searchingly in the single glass. "Suffer much from dandruff?" "Not particularly." "I do. They say it comes from acidity. It's a nuisance. Gets all over one's collar and one has to look smart in our job. Good appearance is half the battle." "D'you mind if I have my brushes?" "Not a bit, old boy, just finished with them...Between ourselves that's always been Shumble's trouble � bad appearance. But of course a journalist is welcome everywhere, even Shumble. That's what's so peculiar about this town. As a rule there is one thing you can always count on in our job � popularity. There are plenty of disadvantages I grant you, but you are liked and respected. Ring people up any hour of the day or night, butt into their houses uninvited, make them answer a string of damn fool questions when they want to do something else � they like it. Always a smile and the best of everything for the gentlemen of the Press. But I don't feel it here. I damn well feel the exact opposite. I ask myself are we known, loved and trusted and the answer comes back, 'No, Corker, you are not.'" There was a knock on the door, barely audible above the general hubbub, and Pigge entered. "Morning, chaps. Cable for Corker. It came last night. Sorry it's been opened. They gave it to me and I didn't notice the address." "Oh, no?" said Corker. "Well, there's nothing in it. Shumble had that query yesterday." Corker read; "'INTERNATIONAL GENDARMERIE PROPOSED PREVENT CLASH TEST REACTIONS UNNATURAL.' Crumbs, they must be short of news in London. What's Gendarmerie?" "A sissy word for cops," said Pigge. "Well it's a routine job. I suppose I must do something about it. Come round with me...We may make some contacts," he added not very hopefully. Mrs. Earl Russell Jackson was in the lounge. "Good morning, madam," said Corker, "and how are you today?" "I aches," said Mrs. Jackson with simple dignity. "I aches terrible all round the sit-upon. It's the damp." "The Press are anxious for your opinion upon a certain question, Mrs. Jackson." "Aw, go ask somebody else. They be coming to mend that roof just as quick as they can and they can't come no quicker than that not for the Press nor nobody." "See what I mean, old boy