The Heart of the Matter - Graham Greene [8]
‘What’s the trouble?’ Scobie asked.
Reith said, ‘He thinks we are not exclusive enough.’ He spoke with the comfortable irony of a man who had in his time been completely exclusive, who had in fact excluded from his solitary table in the Protectorate everyone but himself. Fellowes said hotly, ‘There are limits,’ fingering for confidence the Lancing tie.
‘Tha’s so,’ said Brigstock.
‘I knew it would happen,’ Fellowes said, ‘as soon as we made every officer in the place an honorary member. Sooner or later they would begin to bring in undesirables. I’m not a snob, but in a place like this you’ve got to draw lines - for the sake of the women. It’s not like it is at home.’
‘But what’s the trouble?’ Scobie asked.
‘Honorary members,’ Fellowes said, ‘should not be allowed to introduce guests. Only the other day we had a private brought in. The army can be democratic if it likes, but not at our expense. That’s another thing, there’s not enough drink to go round as it is without these fellows.’
‘Tha’s a point,’ Brigstock said, swaying more violently.
‘I wish I knew what it was all about,’ Scobie said.
‘The dentist from the 49th has brought in a civilian called Wilson, and this man Wilson wants to join the club. It puts everybody in a very embarrassing position.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s one of the U.A.C. clerks. He can join the club in Sharp Town. What does he want to come up here for?’
‘That club’s not functioning,’ Reith said.
‘Well, that’s their fault, isn’t it?’ Over the sanitary inspector’s shoulder Scobie could see the enormous range of the night. The fireflies signalled to and fro along the edge of the hill and the lamp of a patrol-boat moving on the bay could be distinguished only by its steadiness. ‘Black-out time,’ Reith said. ‘We’d better go in.’
‘Which is Wilson?’ Scobie asked him.
‘That’s him over there. The poor devil looks lonely. He’s only been out a few days.’
Wilson stood uncomfortably alone in a Wilderness of armchairs, pretending to look at a map on the wall. His pale face shone and trickled like plaster. He had obviously bought his tropical suit from a shipper who had worked off on him an unwanted line: it was oddly striped and liverish in colour. ‘You’re Wilson, aren’t you?’ Reith said. ‘I saw your name in Col. Sec.’s book today.’
‘Yes, that’s me,’ Wilson said.
‘My name’s Reith. I’m Chief Assistant Col. Sec. This is Scobie, the deputy-commissioner.’
‘I saw you this morning outside the Bedford Hotel, sir,’ Wilson said. There was something defenceless, it seemed to Scobie, in his whole attitude: he stood there waiting for people to be friendly or unfriendly - he didn’t seem to expect one reaction more than another. He was like a dog. Nobody had yet drawn on his face the lines that make a human being.
‘Have a drink, Wilson.’
‘I don’t mind if I do, sir.’
‘Here’s my wife,’ Scobie said. ‘Louise, this is Mr Wilson.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about Mr Wilson already,’ Louise said stiffly.
‘You see, you’re famous, Wilson,’ Scobie said. ‘You’re a man from the town and you’ve gate-crashed Cape Station Club.’
‘I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong. Major Cooper invited me.’
‘That reminds me,’ Reith said, ‘I must make an appointment with Cooper. I think I’ve got an abscess.’ He slid away.
‘Cooper was telling me about the library,’ Wilson said, ‘and I thought perhaps ...’
‘Do you like reading?’ Louise asked, and Scobie realized with relief that she was going to be kind to the poor devil. It was always a bit of a toss-up with Louise. Sometimes she could be the worst snob in the station, and it occurred to him with pity that perhaps now she believed she couldn’t afford to be snobbish. Any new face that didn’t ‘know’ was welcome.
‘Well,’ Wilson said, and fingered desperately at his thin moustache, ‘well...’ It was as if he were gathering strength for a great confession or a great evasion.
‘Detective stories?’ Louise asked.
‘I don’t mind detective stories,’ Wilson said uneasily. ‘Some detective stories.’
‘Personally,’ Louise said, ‘I like poetry.’
‘Poetry,