“Oh, the usual. Just tooled round condemning native houses. How are things at the Fort?”
“Not so dusty. We settled that case I told you about. You know, the one of the natives who built a house in a broken lorry in the middle of the road.”
“Oh, ah. Who won it?”
“Oh, we gave it to the chap in possession on both counts. The Arab who originally owned the car was suing him. So were the Works Department—wanted to evict him because he blocked the traffic. They’ll have to make a new road round him now. They’re pretty fed up, I can tell you. So are the Frenchies.”
“Good show.”
“Yes, give the natives respect for British justice. Can’t make your Frenchy see that… Why, it’s later than I thought. We must be pushing along, old girl. You’re not dining with the Lepperidges by any chance?”
“No.”
The Brethertons were not on dining terms with the Lepperidges. He was O. C. of the native levy, seconded from India and a very considerable man in Matodi. He always referred to Bretherton as the “latrine wallah.”
So the Reppingtons went to dress in their bungalow (fifth of the row), she in black lace, he in white mess jacket. Punctually at 8.I5 they stepped across to the Lepperidges. There were five courses at din-ner, mostly from tins, and a glass dish in the centre of the table held floating flower heads. Mr. and Mrs. Grainger were there; Mr. Grainger was immigration officer. He said: “We’ve had rather a shari this afternoon about that fellow Connolly. You see, strictly speaking he can claim Azanian nationality. He seems to have been quite a big bug under the Emperor. Ran the army for him. Got made a Duke or something. Last sort of fellow one wants hanging about.”
“Quite.”
“Jungly Wallah. They say in the old days he had an affair with the wife of the French minister. That made the Frenchies anxious to get rid of him,”
“Quite. It helps if one can oblige them now and then in small things.”
“Besides, you know, he’s married to a wog. Well, I mean to say…”
“Quite.”
“But I think we’re going to get rid of him all right. Deport him D. B. S. He lost all his money in the revolution.”
“And the woman in the case?”
“Well, that’s no business of ours once we clear him out of here. They seem struck on each other all right. He’ll find it pretty awkward. Aren’t many places would have him. Abyssinia might. It was different when this place was independent.”
“Quite.”
“Jolly good tinned fruit salad, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs. Lepperidge.”
“So glad you like it. I got it from Youkoumian’s.”
“Useful little fellow, Youkoumian. I use him a lot. He’s getting me boots for the levy. Came to me himself with the idea. Said they pick up hookworm through going barefoot.”
“Good show.”
“Quite.”
Night over Matodi. English and French police patrolling the water-front. Gilbert and Sullivan played by gramophone in the Portuguese Fort.
Three little maids from school are we,
Pert as a schoolgirl well can be
Filled to the brim with girlish glee—
Three little maids from school.
The melody and the clear voices floated out over the harbour and the water lapping very gently on the sea-wall. Two British policemen marched abreast through the involved ways of the native quarter. The dogs had long ago been rounded up and painlessly put away. The streets were empty save for an occasional muffled figure, slipping by them silently with a lantern. The blank walls of the Arab tenements gave no sign of life.
On a tree by a river a little tomtit
Sang, ‘Willow, tit-willow, tit-willow!’
And I said to him, ‘Dicky bird, why do you sit
Singing: “Willow, tit-willow, tit-willow?” ‘
Mr. Youkoumian tactfully ejected his last customer and fastened the shutters of the cae. “Very sorry,” he said. “New regulation. No drinking after ten-thirty. I don’t want no bust-ups.”
‘it weakness of intellect, birdie?’ I cried, ‘Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?’
With a shake of his poor little head, he replied, ‘Oh, willow, tit-willow, tit-willow!’
The song rang clear over the dark city and the soft, barely perceptible lapping of the water along the sea- wall.
STONYHURST-CHAGFORD-MADRESFIELD.
Sept., 1931—May, 1932.
The End
