The Heart of the Matter - Graham Greene [5]
The boy was short and squat with the broad ugly pleasant face of a Temne. His bare feet flapped like empty gloves across the floor.
‘What’s wrong with Missus?’ Scobie asked.
‘Belly humbug,’ Ali said.
Scobie took a Mende grammar from the bookcase: it was tucked away in the bottom shelf where its old untidy cover was least conspicuous. In the upper shelves were the flimsy rows of Louise’s authors - not so young modern poets and the novels of Virginia Woolf. He couldn’t concentrate: it was too hot and his wife’s absence was like a garrulous companion in the room reminding him of his responsibility. A fork fell on the floor and he watched Ali surreptitiously wipe it on his sleeve, watched him with affection. They had been together fifteen years - a year longer than his marriage - a long time to keep a servant He had been ‘small boy’ first then assistant steward in the days when one kept four servants, now he was plain steward. After each leave Ali would be on the landing-stage waiting to organize his luggage with three or four ragged carriers. In the intervals of leave many people tried to steal Ali’s services, but he had never yet failed to be waiting - except once when he had been in prison. There was no disgrace about prison; it was an obstacle that no one could avoid for ever.
‘Ticki,’ a voice wailed, and Scobie rose at once. ‘Ticki.’ He went upstairs.
His wife was sitting up under the mosquito-net and for a moment he had the impression of a joint under a meat-cover. But pity trod on the heels of the cruel image and hustled it away. ‘Are you feeling better, darling?’
Louise said, ‘Mrs Castle’s been in.’
‘Enough to make anyone ill,’ Scobie said.
‘She’s been telling me about you,’
‘What about me?’ He gave her a bright fake smile; so much of life was a putting off of unhappiness for another time. Nothing was ever lost by delay. He had a dim idea that perhaps if one delayed long enough, things were taken out of one’s hands altogether by death,
‘She says the Commissioner’s retiring, and they’ve passed you over.’
‘Her husband talks too much in his sleep.’
‘Is it true?’
‘Yes, I’ve known it for weeks. It doesn’t matter, dear, really.’
Louise said, ‘I’ll never be able to show my face at the club again.’
‘It s not as bad as that. These things happen, you know.’
‘You’ll resign, won’t you, Ticki?’
‘I don’t think I can do that, dear.’
‘Mrs Castle’s on our side. She’s furious. She says everyone’s talking about it and saying things. Darling, you aren’t in the pay of the Syrians, are you?’
‘No, dear.’
‘I was so upset I came out of Mass before the end. It’s so mean of them, Ticki. You can’t take it lying down. You’ve got to think of me.’
‘Yes, I do. All the time.’ He sat down on the bed and put his hand under the net and touched hers. Little beads of sweat started where their skins touched. He said, ‘I do think of you, dear. But I’ve been fifteen years in this place. I’d be lost anywhere else, even if they gave me another job. It isn’t much of a recommendation, you know, being passed over,’
‘We could retire.’
‘The pension isn’t much to live on.’
‘I’m sure I could make a little money writing. Mrs Castle says I ought to be a professional. With all this experience,’ Louise said, gazing through the white muslin tent as far as her dressing-table: there another face in white muslin stared back and she looked away. She said, ‘If only we could go to South Africa. I can