Jane Gardam - The Man in the Wooden Hat

“For example,” said Ross, “in the Timor Sea. I was wrecked off. .”

But vegetables had arrived and redcurrant jelly and they munched, meditating on this and that, Ross’s heavy chin a few inches above his plate. “You ate thirty-six bananas,” he said. “On Freetown beach. You were disgusting.”

“They were small bananas. This lamb is splendid.”

“And there’ll be better to come when we’ve changed planes at Delhi. Back to chopsticks and the true cuisine.”

After the tray cloths were drawn and they had finished with their coffee cups they drowsed.

Filth said that he’d have to get down to his papers. “No — I’ll fish them out for myself. You look after your hat. What do you keep in it? Opium?”

Ross ignored him.

Hot towels were brought, the pink tape round the sets of papers undone, the transcripts spread and Ross slept.

How he snores, thought Filth. I remember that on the old Dunoon . And he got to work with his fountain pen and a block of folio, and was soon deaf, blind and oblivious to all else. The sky that enwrapped them now blackened the windows. Below, invisible mountain ranges were speckled with pinpricks of lights like the stars all around and above them. Before long, seats were being converted into beds — not Filth’s; he worked on — and blankets and warm socks were distributed. Night already.

“Brandy, sir? Nightcap?”

“Why not,” said Filth, pulling the papers together, taking off his cashmere pullover and putting on a Marks & Spencer’s. A steward came to ease off his shoes.

I have seldom felt so happy, he thought, sipping the brandy, closing his eyes, awaiting sleep. I wonder if I should tell the Albatross why? No. Better wait till after Delhi.

But then: Why not? I owe him so much. Best person, just about, I’ve ever met. Most loyal. My salvation. I’ve had other salvations but this one looks like lasting.

He watched the strange sleeping face of the dwarf, and Ross opened his eyes.

“Coleridge?”

Albert Ross looked startled.

“Coleridge, I have something to tell you.”

At once the playing cards were flying. Ross began to shuffle and deal them.

“Will you put those bloody things away?”

“Do I understand,” said Ross, setting them carefully down, “that there is to be some sort of revelation?”

“Yes.”

“Much better find the Lady,” said Ross, beginning to deal again.

“I have found the lady, Coleridge. I have found her.”

There was silence; only the purr of the plane.

The silence lasted until Delhi and all through the stopover, the pacing in the marble first-class lounge, the buying of trinkets in the shops — Ross bought a case of blue butterflies — the resettling into Air India. Along swam the smiling painted girls in their cheongsams. The final take-off for Hong Kong.

“So,” said Ross. “You are about to be married. It is a revelation all right, but immaterial to your profession. Wait until you’ve done it as often as I have.”

Filth looked uneasy. “You never told me any of that, Albert.”

“I consider that they are my private affairs. Who is she?”

“She’ll be in Hong Kong when we get there. Waiting. Today.”

“She’s Chinese?”

“No. No, a Scottish woman. But born in Tiensin. I met her — well, I’ve been meeting her off and on for a year or so. Whenever we come out East. The first case you got for me. In Singapore.”

“So that I’m to blame?”

“Yes. Of course. I’m very glad to say. You will, I hope, be best man at my wedding. Without that hat.”

“Her name?”

“She’s called Elisabeth Macintosh. Betty. She’s a good sort. Very attractive.”

“A good sort !” The cards again were flying. “A good sort ?” He was wagging his weird Johnsonian head from side to side.

“She hasn’t actually accepted me yet,” said Filth. “I’ve only just asked her. In a letter from Chambers sent to her hotel and marked ‘To await arrival.’ She’s just passing through with a friend. They’ve been in Australia — or somewhere. She has had some sort of work — I’m not sure. Rather hush-hush. She’s a natural traveller but not at all well off. She’s at the Old Colony Hotel.”

“Never heard of it.” Without apparent volition the cards rose like liquid into a circle, and subsided.

“Look, Albert, on the whole perhaps not mention it yet. I think she may accept me. Seems quite fond of me. She hasn’t actually said—”

“I’m glad that she seems fond of you. It is the usual thing.”

“And I’m really very fond of her. What’s the matter?”

“You haven’t slept with her then?”

A steward looked away but went on listening.

“No,” cried Filth, loud and unaware. “No, of course not. She’s a lady. And I want to marry her.”

“How young?”

“I’ve never asked. She’s a young girl. Well, she can’t technically be a girl. She grew up in the war. Japanese internment camp in Shanghai. Lost both parents. Doesn’t speak about it.”

“Have you ever asked her about it?”

“One doesn’t intrude.”

“Edward, what does she know about you ? That you ought to tell her? What have you talked about? Will she stay with you?”

“She’s good at birds and plants. So am I. My prep school. She’s very lively. Infectiously happy. Very bright eyes. Strong. Rather — muscular. I feel safe with her.” Filth looked at the throbbing structure of the plane. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I would die for her.”

“Yes, I will,” the girl was saying in the shabby hotel in the back street, and street music playing against the racket of the mah-jong players on every open stone balcony. The overhead fan was limp and fly-spotted. On the beds were 1920s scarlet satin counterpanes with ugly yellow flowers done in stem stitch. They must have survived the war. Old wooden shutters clattered. There was the smell of the rotting lilies heaped in a yard below. Betty was alone, her friend Lizzie out somewhere, thank goodness. Betty would have hated not to be alone when she read Edward’s letter. What lovely handwriting. Rather a shame he’d used his Chambers writing paper. She wondered how many rough drafts he’d made first. Transcripts. He was wedded to transcripts. This was meant to be kept.

And she would. She’d keep it for ever. Their grandchildren would leave it to a museum as a memento of the jolly old dead.

Eddie Feathers? Crikey! He does sound a bit quaint. ( Would you consider our being married, Elisabeth ?) Not exactly Romeo. More like Mr. Knightley, though Mr. Knightley had a question mark about him. Forty-ish and always off to London alone. Don’t tell me that Emma was his first. I’m wandering. I do rather wish Eddie wasn’t so perfect. But of course I’ll marry him. I can’t think of a reason not to.

She kissed the letter and put it down her shirt.

Over the South China Sea Albert Ross was saying, “Do you know anything about this girl? Do you think she knows a bloody thing about you?”

“I’d say I was pretty straightforward.”

“Would you! Would you?”

The plane lurched sideways and down. Then again sideways and down. It tilted its wings like a bird that had suddenly lost concentration and fallen asleep in the dark. Though, thought Filth, the prep-school-trained ornithologist, they never do.

“Elisabeth,” he said, “makes me think of a kingfisher. She glitters and shines. Or a glass of water.”

“Oh?”

“A glass of clear water in a Scottish burn rushing through heather.”

“Good God.”

“Yes.”

“Has she ever seen heather? Born in Tiensin? Is she beautiful?”