met Tommy soon after he got here,” he said. “That was about five months ago. He used to come and watch the cricket matches on Sundays. We got to chatting one time and he said he was a writer. I thought that was kind of interesting. Never met a writer before. I started inviting him round to our bungalow — me and Archie share with two other Guthrie’s chaps — and we had some grand conversations. He told us all about his girl, Adele, and said she was his fiancée but he couldn’t persuade her to come over and get married. He was bound and determined to write a book, and said he couldn’t do it in England. Money, he said. He was quite open about the whole thing.” Rodney chuckled. “And we could sympathize, I tell you.” He poured us both another shot and turned to face me.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I love the life here. You know, the adventure, the experience, and all that. Something to remember in my old age, for sure. But you give up a lot when you come here: marriage, family, they all have to wait. Not many women are willing to chuck it all in and take a chance on love in the Far East. And the Company …” and here he hesitated before continuing, “… frowns, shall we say, on employees marrying before they’ve been here long enough to save up a nice tidy sum of money. So, female companionship, at least of the English kind,” he chuckled again, “is scarce as hen’s teeth.”
“Come, come,” I said. “Are you telling me all of you want to settle down with a wife and children? Because if you are,” and I raised a skeptical eyebrow, “I can only conclude you’ve been spending too much time in the sun without a hat on.”
Rodney threw back his head and laughed. “Right,” he said. “It does sound a bit daft. I guess it’s just that you always want what you can’t have. If the place were teeming with available young women, we’d probably ignore them half the time, and complain about their meddling the other half.”
“Agreed,” I said, and smiled. “I guess it’s human nature.”
We contemplated for a moment, and I looked over at Rodney. He was watching Adele, who was chatting with the only other female at the party, a thin, matronly woman in a dark green crepe dress with a white collar. Her dull brown hair was severely pulled back into a small knot, and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles sat on her nose. She looked to be about forty-five, but was probably in her early thirties. She was the wife of the vicar who had married the young couple, and was no doubt giving Adele some sound advice on how to manage married life in Singapore. Adele occasionally nodded her head in agreement and once even laughed at something the vicar’s wife said.
“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” I said to Rodney.
“Yes,” he said, “she is.”
“Do you think she’ll be all right?” I asked. “From what you’ve told me, it’s not much of a life for a woman out here. Especially a young woman, newly married.”
“That’s right,” he said. “She probably won’t find too many friends here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Not connected,” he said matter-of-factly. “Her husband’s not in business and he’s not in the M.C.S. His only friends are bachelors like me.”
“Ah,” I said. “I see the problem.”
“It won’t be easy for her, that’s for sure. I doubt she has any idea what’s in store for her. And she’s left everything she cares about behind in England. Except for Tommy, of course,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Yes, of course. Tommy,” I said. “Think he’ll do right by her?”
Rodney chuckled. “He’d better,” he said quietly, “or he’ll have to answer to me.”
I thought it best not to comment and waited for him to go on.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, pouring more whisky into our glasses. “I like Tommy. He’s a good chap. But writing’s not a real job, know what I mean?”
I nodded my head. Indeed, I did know what he meant.
“You can’t eat dreams. And words and sentences, no matter how brilliant, don’t pay the rent.” He laughed at this, as if he’d made a joke. But it was an uncomfortable laugh, as if he’d recognized a profounder truth than he’d intended.
“But he has money enough for now, hasn’t he?” I asked. For hadn’t someone said that Tommy had come to Singapore with a stake that would last him five years?
“Yes,” said Rodney, “it’s what I’ve heard. What we all believe. But what if he isn’t willing to give up this writing thing if it doesn’t pan out? What if one of them gets sick, God forbid, or there’s a baby? Then the five years becomes two or three, right? Things don’t always work out the way we plan them. Am I right?”
“Yes,” I said. “You’re right. You can’t plan for the unexpected.”
“Exactly,” he said. “My point exactly. And I wonder if Tommy’s thought about that and thought this thing through to all its possible conclusions.”
By this time, Rodney and I had consumed a fair amount of the whisky his generosity had provided. We were both a good way into our cups, I must say, and when that happens, one doesn’t always think of how wonderful the world is and how lucky we are to be inhabiting it. I’m sure we each imagined a dismal fate for the unsuspecting young couple, who had only been married a few hours at this point. Rodney lifted his right arm and dropped it heavily on my shoulders.
“Just between you and me,” he said, focusing his reddening eyes on mine, “I think she’s too good for him.”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “I see.”
“She could have any man in this room,” he said, waving his left arm in a sweeping motion that took in the small party of seemingly unconnected individuals, including the good Reverend, a few other Guthrie’s fellows, and a couple of Chinese waiters. “Any one of them,” he repeated.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, “but she’s chosen Tommy. For better or for worse.”
“Better or worse,” he mumbled.
I did not hear how things turned out for Tommy and Adele for many years. By that time I was living in Monte Carlo and was a frequent guest at the salon of Lady Brett Winstone, a woman of exceptional beauty and intelligence who liked the company of writers and artists and who entertained those travellers who passed through the small kingdom of Monaco when heading for eastern and western destinations. At one of these affairs, I found myself chatting amiably with a gentleman who had spent nearly two decades in Malaya in the employ of Guthrie’s.
“Guthrie’s?” I queried. “I met a chap several years ago in Singapore who was employed at Guthrie’s. It was at a wedding, as I recall. At the Raffles Hotel. He and his mate were generously picking up the tab for the young couple. The groom was a writer or, at least, aspired to be a writer.”
The man, well into the encumbrances of middle age — paunchy, slightly balding, and of a florid complexion — threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, yes,” he said, “that was me. Rodney Sewell, it is, and glad to see you again.” We shook hands and I re-introduced myself. “We put away a good amount of whisky that day, didn’t we?” he said. “I cursed you the next day, I did. But we were both much younger then, weren’t we, old chap?”
