The Heart of the Matter - Graham Greene [40]
‘Yes, Ticki, and you?’
‘I’m happy as long as you are happy.’
‘It will be all right when I’ve got on board and settled down. I expect I shall drink a bit tonight Why don’t you have someone in, Ticki?’
‘Oh, I prefer being alone.’
‘Write to me every week.’
‘Of course.’
‘And Ticki, you won’t be lazy about Mass? You’ll go when I’m not there?’
‘Of course.’
Wilson came up the road. His face shone with sweat and anxiety. He said, ‘Are you really off? Ali told me at the house that you are going on board this afternoon.’
‘She’s off,’ Scobie said. ‘You never told me it was close like this.’
‘I forgot,’ Louise said, ‘there was so much to do.’
‘I never thought you’d really go. I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t run into Halifax at the agent’s.’
‘Oh well,’ Louise said, ‘you and Henry will have to keep an eye on each other.’
‘It’s incredible,’ Wilson said, kicking the dusty road. He hung there, between them and the house, not stirring to let them by. He said, ‘I don’t know a soul but you - and Harris of course.’
‘You’ll have to start making acquaintances,’ Louise said. ‘You’ll have to excuse us now. There’s so much to do.’
They walked round him because he didn’t move, and Scobie, looking back, gave him a kindly wave - he looked so lost and unprotected and out of place on the blistered road. ‘Poor Wilson,’ he said, ‘I think he’s in love with you.’
‘He thinks he is.’
‘It’s a good thing for him you are going. People like that become a nuisance in this climate. I’ll be kind to him while you are away.’
‘Ticki,’ she said, ‘I shouldn’t see too much of him. I wouldn’t trust him. There’s something phoney about him.’
‘He’s young and romantic.’
‘He’s too romantic. He tells lies. Why does he say he doesn’t know a soul?’
‘I don’t think he does.’
‘He knows the Commissioner. I saw him going up there the other night at dinner-time.’
‘It’s just a way of talking.’
Neither of them had any appetite for lunch, but the cook, who wanted to rise to the occasion, produced an enormous curry which filled a washing-basin in the middle of the table: round it were ranged (he many small dishes that went with it -the fried bananas, red peppers, ground nuts, paw paw, orange-slices, chutney. They seemed to be sitting miles apart separated by a waste of dishes. The food chilled on their plates and there seemed nothing to talk about except, ‘I’m not hungry,’ ‘Try and eat a little,’ ‘I can’t touch a thing,’ ‘You ought to start off with a good meal,’ an endless friendly bicker about food. Ali came in and out to watch them: he was like a figure on a clock that records the striking of the hours. It seemed horrible to both of them that now they would be glad when the separation was complete; they could settle down when once this ragged leave-taking was over, to a different life which again would exclude change.
‘Are you sure you’ve got everything?’ This was another variant which enabled them to sit there not eating but occasionally picking at something easily swallowed, going through all the things that might have been forgotten.
‘It’s lucky there’s only one bedroom. They’ll have to let you keep the house to yourself.’
‘They may turn me out for a married couple.’
‘You’ll write every week?’
‘Of course.’
Sufficient time had elapsed: they could persuade themselves that they had lunched. ‘If you can’t eat any more I may as well drive you down. The sergeant’s organized carriers at the wharf.’ They could say nothing now which wasn’t formal; unreality cloaked their movements. Although they could touch each other it was as if the whole coastline of a continent was already between them; their words were like the stilted sentences of a bad letter-writer.
It was a relief to be on board and no longer alone together. Halifax, of the Public Works Department, bubbled over with false bonhomie. He cracked risky jokes: and told the two women to drink plenty of gin. ‘It’s good for the bow-wows,’ he said. ‘First thing to go wrong on board ship are the bowwows. Plenty of gin at night and what will cover a sixpence in the morning.’ The two women took stock of their cabin. They stood there in the shadow like cave-dwellers; they spoke in undertones that the men couldn