ILSON sat on the balcony of the Bedford Hotel with his bald pink knees thrust against the ironwork. It was Sunday and the Cathedral bell clanged for matins. On the other side of Bond street, in the windows of the High School, sat the young negresses in dark-blue gym smocks engaged on, the intermin-able task of trying to wave their wirespring hair. Wilson stroked his very young moustache and dreamed, waiting for his gin-and-bitters.
Sitting there, facing Bond Street, he had his face turned to the sea. His pallor showed how recently he had emerged from it into the port: so did his lack of interest in the schoolgirls opposite. He was like the lagging finger of the barometer1, still pointing to Fair long after its companion has moved to Stormy. Below him the black clerks moved churchward, but their wives in brilliant afternoon dresses of blue and cerise aroused no interest in Wilson. He was alone on the balcony except for one bearded Indian in a turban who had already tried to tell his fortune: this was not the hour or the day for white men - they would be at the beach five miles away, but Wilson had no car. He felt almost intolerably lonely. On either side of the school the tin roofs sloped towards the sea, and the corrugated2 iron above his head clanged and clattered3 as a vul-ture alighted.
Three merchant officers from the convoy4 in the harbour came into view, walking up from the quay5. They were sur-rounded immediately by small boys wearing school caps. The boys’ refrain came faintly up to Wilson like a nursery rhyme: ‘Captain want jig6 jig, my sister pretty girl school-teacher, cap-tain want jig jig.’ The bearded Indian frowned over intricate calculations on the back of an envelope - a horoscope, the cost of living? When Wilson looked down into the street again the officers had fought their way free, and the schoolboys had swarmed7 again round a single able-seaman: they led him tri-umphantly away towards the brothel near the police station, as though to the nursery.
A black boy brought Wilson’s gin and he sipped8 it very slowly because he had nothing else to do except to return to his hot and squalid room and read a novel - or a poem. Wil-son liked poetry, but he absorbed it secretly, like a drug. The Golden Treasury9 accompanied him wherever he went, but it was taken at night in small doses - a finger of Longfellow, Macaulay, Mangan: ‘Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love ...’ His taste was romantic. For public exhibition he had his Wallace. He wan-ted passionately10 to be indistinguishable on the surface from other men: he wore his moustache like a club tie - it was his highest common factor, but his eyes betrayed him - brown dog’s eyes, a setter’s eyes, pointing mournfully towards Bond Street.
‘Excuse me,’ a voice said, ‘aren’t you Wilson?’
He looked up at a middle-aged11 man in the inevitable12 khaki shorts with a drawn13 face the colour of hay.
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘May I join you? My name’s Harris.’
‘Delighted, Mr Harris.’
‘You’re the new accountant at the U.A.C.?’
‘That’s me. Have a drink?’
‘I’ll have a lemon squash if you don’t mind. Can’t drink in the middle of the day.’
The Indian rose from his table and approached with deference14, ‘You remember me, Mr Harris. Perhaps you would tell your friend, Mr Harris, of my talents. Perhaps he would like to read my letters of recommendation ...’ The grubby sheaf of envelopes was always in his hand. ‘The leaders of society.’
‘Be off. Beat it, you old scoundrel,’ Harris said.
‘How did you know my name?’ Wilson asked.
‘Saw it on a cable. I’m a cable censor,’ Harris said. ‘What a job! What a place!’
‘I can see from here, Mr Harris, that your fortune has chan-ged considerably15. If you would step with me for a moment into the bathroom...’
‘Beat it, Gunga Din16.’
‘Why the bathroom?’ Wilson asked.
‘He always tells fortunes there. I suppose it’s the only pri-vate room available. I never thought of asking why.’
‘Been here long?’
‘Eighteen bloody17 months.’
‘Going home soon?’
Harris stared over the tin roofs towards the harbour. He said, ‘The ships all go the wrong way. But when I do get home you’ll never see me here again.’ He lowered his voice and said with venom18 over his lemon squash, ‘I hate the place. I hate the people. I hate the bloody niggers. Mustn’t call ‘em that you know.’
‘My boy seems all right’
‘A man’s boy’s always all right. He’s a real nigger - but these, look at ‘em, look at that one with a feather boa down there. They aren’t even real niggers. Just West Indians and they rule the coast Clerks in the stores, city council, magistrates19, law-yers - my God. It’s all right up in the Protectorate. I haven’t anything to say against a real nigger. God made our colours. But these - my God! The Government’s afraid of them. The police are afraid of them. Look down there,’ Harris said, ‘look at Scobie.’
A vulture flapped and shifted on the iron roof and Wilson looked at Scobie. He looked without interest in obedience20 to a stranger’s direction, and it seemed to him that no particular interest attached to the squat21 grey-haired man walking alone up Bond Street. He couldn’t tell that this was one of those oc-casions a man never forgets: a small cicatrice had been made on the memory, a wound that would ache whenever certain things combined - the taste of gin at mid-day, the smell of flowers under a balcony, the clang of corrugated iron, an ugly bird flopping22 from perch23 to perch.
‘He loves ‘em so much,’ Harris said, ‘he sleeps with ‘em.’
‘Is that the police uniform?’
‘It is. Our great police force. A lost thing will they never find - you know the poem.’
‘I don’t read poetry,’ Wilson said. His eyes followed Scobie up the sun-drowned street. Scobie stopped and had a word with a black man in a white panama: a black policeman passed by, saluting24 smartly. Scobie went on.
‘Probably in the pay of the Syrians too if the truth were known.’
‘The Syrians?’
‘This is the original Tower of Babel,’ Harris said. ‘West In-dians, Africans, real Indians, Syrians, Englishmen, Scotsmen in the Office of Works, Irish priests, French priests, Alsatian priests.
‘What do the Syrians do?’
‘Make money. They run an the stores up country and most of the stores here. Run diamonds too.’
‘I suppose there’s a lot of that’
‘The Germans pay a high price.’
‘Hasn’t he got a wife here?’
‘Who? Oh, Scobie. Rather. He’s got a wife. Perhaps if I had a wife like that, I’d sleep with niggers too. You’ll meet her soon. She’s the city intellectual. She likes art, poetry. Got up an exhibition of arts for the shipwrecked seamen25. You know the kind of thing - poems on exile by aircraftsmen, water-colours by stokers, pokerwork from the mission schools. Poor old Scobie. Have another gin?’
‘I think I will,’ said Wilson,
2
Scobie turned up James Street past the Secretariat. With its long balconies it had always reminded him of a hospital. For fifteen years he had watched the arrival of a succession of pa-tients; periodically at the end of eighteen months certain patients were sent home, yellow and nervy, and others took their place - Colonial Secretaries, Secretaries of Agriculture, Treasurers26 and Directors of Public Works. He watched their temperature charts every one - the first outbreak of unreasonable27 temper, the drink too many, the sudden stand for prin-ciple after a year of acquiescence28. The black clerks carried their bedside manner like doctors down the corridors; cheer-ful and respectful they put up with any insult. The patient was always right.
Round the corner, in front of the old cotton tree, where the earliest settlers had garnered29 their first day on the unfriendly shore, stood the law courts and police station, a great stone building like the grandiloquent30 boast of weak men. Inside that massive frame the human being rattled31 in the corridors like a dry kernel32. No one could have been adequate to so rhetorical a conception. But the idea in any case was only one room deep. In the dark narrow passage behind, in the charge-room and the cells, Scobie could always detect the odour of human meanness and injustice33 - it was the smell of a zoo, of sawdust, excrement34, ammonia, and lack of liberty. The place was scrubbed daily, but you could never eliminate the smell. Prisoners and policemen carried it in their clothing like cigarette smoke.
Scobie climbed the great steps and turned to his right along the shaded outside corridor to his room: a table, two kitchen chairs, a cupboard, some rusty35 handcuffs hanging on a nail like an old hat, a filing cabinet: to a stranger it would have appeared a bare uncomfortable room but to Scobie it was home. Other men slowly build up the sense of home by ac-cumulation - a new picture, more and more books, an odd-shaped paper-weight, the ash-tray bought for a forgotten rea-son on a forgotten holiday; Scobie built his home by a process of reduction. He had started out fifteen years ago with far more than this. There had been a photograph of his wife, bright leather cushions from the market an easy-chair, a large coloured map of the port on the wall. The map had been bor-rowed by younger men: it was of no more use to him; he carried the whole coastline of the colony in his mind’s eye: from Kufa Bay to Medley36 was his beat. As for the cushions and the easy-chair, he had soon discovered how comfort of that kind down in the airless town meant heat. Where the body was touched or enclosed it sweated. Last of all his wife’s photograph had been made unnecessary by her presence. She had joined him the first year of the phoney war and now she couldn’t get away: the danger of submarines had made her as much a fixture37 as the handcuffs on the nail. Besides, it had been a very early photograph, and he no longer cared to be re-minded of the unformed face, the expression calm and gentle with lack of knowledge, the lips parted obediently in the smile the photographer had demanded. Fifteen years form a face, gentleness ebbs38 with experience, and he was always aware of his own responsibility. He had led the way: the experience that had come to her was the experience selected by himself. He had formed her face.
He sat down at his bare table and almost immediately his Mende sergeant39 clicked his heels in the doorway40. ‘Sah?’
‘Anything to report?’
‘The Commissioner41 want to see you, sah.’
‘Anything on the charge sheet?’
‘Two black men fight in the market, sah,’
‘Mammy trouble?’
‘Yes, sah,’
‘Anything else?’
‘Miss Wilberforce want to see you, sah, I tell her you was at church and she got to come back by-and-by, but she stick. She say she no budge42.’
‘Which Miss Wilberforce is that, sergeant?’
‘I don’t know, sah. She come from Sharp Town, sah.’
‘Well, I’ll see her after the Commissioner. But no one else, mind.’
‘Very good, sah.’
Scobie, passing down the passage to the Commissioner’s room, saw the girl sitting alone on a bench against the wall: he didn’t look twice: he caught only the vague impression of a young black African face, a bright cotton frock, and then she was already out of his mind, and he was wondering what he should say to the Commissioner. It had been on his mind all that week.
‘Sit down, Scobie.’ The Commissioner was an old man of fifty-three - one counted age by the years a man had served in the colony. The Commissioner with twenty-two years’ service was the oldest man there, just as the Governor was a stripling of sixty compared with any district officer who had five years’ knowledge behind him.
‘I’m retiring, Scobie,’ the Commissioner said, ‘after this tour.’
‘I know.’
‘I suppose everyone knows.’
‘I’ve heard the men talking about it.’
‘And yet you are the second man I’ve told. Do they say who’s taking my place?’
Scobie said, ‘They know who isn’t.’
‘It’s damned unfair,’ the Commissioner said. ‘I can do noth-ing more than I have done, Scobie. You are a wonderful man for picking up enemies. Like Aristides the Just’
‘I don’t think I’m as just as all that’
‘The question is what do you want to do? They are sending a man called Baker43 from Gambia. He’s younger than you are. Do you want to resign, retire, transfer, Scobie?’
‘I want to stay,’ Scobie said,
‘Your wife won’t like it’
‘I’ve been here too long to go.’ He thought to himself, poor Louise, if I had left it to her, where should we be now? and he admitted straight away that they wouldn’t be here - some-where far better, better climate, better pay, better position. She would have taken every opening for improvement: she would have steered44 agilely45 up the ladders and left the snakes alone. I’ve landed her here, he thought, with the odd premoni-tory sense of guilt46 he always felt as though he were responsible for something in the future he couldn’t even foresee. He said aloud, ‘You know I like the place.’
‘I believe you do. I wonder why.’
‘It’s pretty in the evening,’ Scobie said vaguely47.
‘Do you know the latest story they are using against you at the Secretariat?’
‘I suppose I’m in the Syrians’ pay?’
‘They haven’t got that far yet That’s the next stage. No, you steep with black girls. You know what it is, Scobie, you ought to have flirted48 with one of their wives. They feel in-sulted.’
‘Perhaps I ought to sleep with a black girl Then they won’t have to think up anything else.’
‘The man before you slept with dozens,’ the Commissioner said, ‘but it never bothered anyone. They thought up some-thing different for him. They said he drank secretly. It made them feel better drinking publicly. What a lot of swine they are, Scobie.’
‘The Chief Assistant Colonial Secretary’s not a bad chap.’
‘No, the Chief Assistant Colonial Secretary’s all right’ The Commissioner laughed. ‘You’re a terrible fellow, Scobie. Scobie the Just.’
Scobie returned down the passage; the girl sat in the dusk. Her feet were bare: they stood side by side like casts in a museum: they didn’t belong to the bright smart cotton frock. ‘Are you Miss Wilberforce?’ Scobie asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You don’t live here, do you?’
‘No! I live in Sharp Town, sir.’
‘Well, come in.’ He led the way into his office and sat down at his desk. There was no pencil laid out and he opened his drawer. Here and here only had objects accumulated: letters, india-rubbers, a broken rosary - no pencil. ‘What’s the trouble, Miss Wilberforce?’ His eye caught a snapshot of a bathing party at Medley Beach: his wife, the Colonial Secre-tary’s wife, the Director of Education holding up what looked like a dead fish, the Colonial Treasurer’s wife. The expanse of white flesh made them look like a gathering49 of albinos, and all the mouths gaped50 with laughter.
The girl said, ‘My landlady51 - she broke up my home last night She come in when it was dark, and she pull down all the partition, an’ she thieve my chest with all my belongings52.’
‘You got plenty lodgers55?’
‘Only three, sir.’
He knew exactly how it all was: a lodger53 would take a one-roomed shack56 for five shillings a week, stick up a few thin par-titions and let the so-called rooms for half a crown a piece - a horizontal tenement57. Each room would be furnished with a box containing a little china and glass ‘dashed’ by an em-ployer or stolen from an employer, a bed made out of old packing-cases, and a hurricane lamp. The glass of these lamps did not long survive, and the little open flames were always ready to catch some spilt paraffin; they licked at the plywood partitions and caused innumerable fires. Sometimes a landlady would thrust her way into her house and pull down the dan-gerous partitions, sometimes she would steal the lamps of her tenants58, and the ripple60 of her theft would go out in widening rings of lamp thefts until they touched the European quarter and became a subject of gossip at the club. ‘Can’t keep a lamp for love or money.’
‘Your landlady,’ Scobie told the girl sharply, ‘she say you make plenty trouble: too many lodgers: too many lamps.’
‘No, sir. No lamp palaver61.’
‘Mammy palaver, eh? You bad girl?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Why you come here? Why you not call Corporal Laminah In Sharp Town?’
‘He my landlady’s brother, sir.’
‘He is, is he? Same father same mother?’
‘No, sir. Same father.’
The interview was like a ritual between priest and server. He knew exactly what would happen when one of his men investigated the affair. The landlady would say that she had told her tenant59 to pull down the partitions and when that failed she had taken action herself. She would deny that there had ever been a chest of china. The corporal would confirm this. He would turn out not to be the landlady’s brother, but some other unspecified relation - probably disreputable. Bribes62 - which were known respectably as dashes - would pass to and fro, the storm of indignation and anger that had soun-ded so genuine would subside63, the partitions would go up again, nobody would hear any more about the chest, and se-veral policemen would be a shilling or two the richer. At the beginning of his service Scobie had flung himself into these investigations65; he had found himself over and over again in the position of a partisan66, supporting as he believed the poor and innocent tenant against the wealthy and guilty house-owner. But he soon discovered that the guilt and innocence67 were as relative as the wealth. The wronged tenant turned out to be also the wealthy capitalist, making a profit of five shillings a week on a single room, living rent free herself. After that he had tried to kill these cases at birth: he would reason with the complainant and point out that the investigation64 would do no good and undoubtedly68 cost her time and money; he would sometimes even refuse to investigate. The result of that inaction had been stones flung at his car window, slashed69 tyres, the nickname of the Bad Man that had stuck to him through all one long sad tour - it worried him unreasonably70 in the heat and damp; he couldn’t take it lightly. Already he had begun to desire these people’s trust and affection. That year he had blackwater fever and was nearly invalided71 from the ser-vice altogether.
The girl waited patiently for his decision. They had an in-finite capacity for patience when patience was required - just as their impatience72 knew no bounds of propriety73 when they had anything to gain by it. They would sit quietly all day in a white man’s backyard in order to beg for something he hadn’t the power to grant, or they would shriek74 and fight and abuse to get served in a store before their neighbour. He thought: how beautiful she is. It was strange to think that fifteen years ago he would not have noticed her beauty - the small high breasts, the tiny wrists, the thrust of the young buttocks, she would have been indistinguishable from her fellows - a black. In those days he had thought his wife beautiful. A white skin had not then reminded him of an albino. Poor Louise. He said, ‘Give this chit to the sergeant at the desk.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘That’s all right.’ He smiled. ‘Try to tell him the truth.’
He watched her go out of the dark office like fifteen wasted years.
3
Scobie had been out-manoeuvred in the interminable war over housing. During his last leave he had lost his bungalow75 in Cape76 Station, the main European quarter, to a senior sanitary77 in-spector called Fellowes, and had found himself relegated78 to a square two-storeyed house built originally for a Syrian trader on the flats below - a piece of reclaimed79 swamp which would return to swamp as soon as the nuns80 set in. From the windows he looked directly out to sea over a line of Creole houses; on the other side of the road lorries backed and churned in a military transport camp and vultures strolled like domestic turkeys in the regimental refuse. On the low ridge81 of hills be-hind him the bungalows82 of the station lay among the low clouds; lamps burned all day in the cupboards, mould gath-ered on the boots - nevertheless these were the houses for men of his rank. Women depended so much on pride, pride in themselves, their husbands, their surroundings. They were sel-dom proud, it seemed to him, of the invisible.
‘Louise,’ he called, ‘Louise.’ There was no reason to call: if she wasn’t in the living-room there was nowhere else for her to be but the bedroom (the kitchen was simply a shed in the yard opposite the back door), yet it was his habit to cry her name, a habit he had formed in the days of anxiety and love. The less he needed Louise the more conscious he became of his responsibility for her happiness. When he called her name he was crying like Canute against a tide - the tide of her melan-choly and disappointment.
In the old days she had replied, but she was not such a crea-ture of habit as he was - nor so false, he sometimes told himself. Kindness and pity had no power with her; she would never have pretended an emotion she didn’t feel, and like an animal she gave way completely to the momentary83 sickness and recovered as suddenly. When he found her in the bed-room under the mosquito-net she reminded him of a dog or a cat, she was so completely ‘out’. Her hair was matted, her eyes closed. He stood very still like a spy in foreign territory, and indeed he was in foreign territory now. If home for him meant the reduction of things to a friendly unchanging mini-mum, home to her was accumulation. The dressing-table was crammed84 with pots and photographs - himself as a young man in the curiously85 dated officer’s uniform of the last war: the Chief Justice’s wife whom for the moment she counted as her friend: their only child who had died at school in England three years ago - a little pious86 nine-year-old girl’s face in the white muslin of first communion: innumerable photographs of Louise herself, in groups with nursing sisters, with the Ad-miral’s party at Medley Beach, on a Yorkshire moor87 with Teddy Bromley and his wife. It was as if she were accumulat-ing evidence that she had friends like other people. He watch-ed her through the muslin net Her face had the ivory tinge88 of atabrine: her hair which had once been the colour of bot-tled honey was dark and stringy with sweat. These were the times of ugliness when he loved her, when pity and responsi-bility reached the intensity89 of a passion. It was pity that told him to go: he wouldn’t have woken his worst enemy from sleep, leave alone Louise. He tiptoed out and down the stairs. (The inside stairs could be found nowhere else in this bunga-low city except in Government House, and she had tried to make them an object of pride with stair-carpets and pictures on the wall.) In the living-room there was a bookcase full of her books, rugs on the floor, a native mask from Nigeria, more photographs. The books had to be wiped daily to remove the damp, and she had not succeeded very well in disguising with flowery curtains the food safe which stood with each foot in a little enamel90 basin of water to keep the ants out The boy was laying a single place for lunch.
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 humbug91,’ 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 conspicuous92. 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 garrulous93 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 steward94 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 ragged95 carriers. In the intervals96 of leave many people tried to steal Ali’s services, but he had never yet failed to be waiting - ex-cept 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 wailed97, 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 joint98 under a meat-cover. But pity trod on the heels of the cruel image and hustled99 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. Noth-ing 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 beads100 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 any-where 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’t bear the people here.’
‘Perhaps I could arrange a passage for you. There haven’t been many sinkings that way lately. You ought to have a holi-day.’
‘There was a time when you wanted to retire too. You used to count the years. You made plans - for all of us.’
‘Oh well, one changes,’ he said.
She said mercilessly, ‘You didn’t think you’d be alone with me then.’
He pressed his sweating hand against hers. ‘What nonsense you talk, dear. You must get up and have some food...’
‘Do you love anyone, Ticki, except yourself?’
‘No, I just love myself, that’s all. And Ali. I forgot Ali. Of course I love him too. But not you,’ he ran on with worn mechanical raillery, stroking her hand, smiling, soothing101. . .
‘And Ali’s sister?’
‘Has he got a sister?’
‘They’ve an got sisters, haven’t they? Why didn’t you go to Mass today?’
‘It was my morning on duty, dear. You know that’
‘You could have changed it. You haven’t got much faith, have you, Ticki?’
‘You’ve got enough for both of us, dear. Come and have some food.’
‘Ticki, I sometimes think you just became a Catholic to marry me. It doesn’t mean a thing to you, does it?’
‘Listen, darling, you want to come down and eat a bit Then you want to take the car along to the beach and have some fresh air.’
‘How different the whole day would have been,’ she said, staring out of her net, ‘if you’d come home and said, ‘Darling, I’m going to be the Commissioner.’’
Scobie said slowly, ‘You know, dear, in a place like this in war-time - an important harbour - the Vichy French just across the border - all this diamond smuggling102 from the Pro-tectorate, they need a younger man.’ He didn’t believe a word he was saying.
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘That’s the only reason. You can’t blame anyone. It’s the war.’
‘The war does spoil everything, doesn’t it?’
‘It gives the younger men a chance.’
‘Darling, perhaps I’ll come down and just pick at a little cold meat’
‘That’s right dear.’ He withdrew his hand: it was dripping with sweat. ‘I’ll tell Ali.’
Downstairs he shouted ‘Ali’ out of the back door.
‘Massa?’
‘Lay two places. Missus better.’
The first faint breeze of the day came off the sea, blowing up over the bushes and between the Creole huts. A vulture flapped heavily upwards103 from the iron roof and down again in me yard next door. Scobie drew a deep breath; he felt ex-hausted and victorious104: he had persuaded Louise to pick a little meat. It had always been his responsibility to maintain happiness in those he loved. One was safe now, for ever, and the other was going to eat her lunch.
4
In the evening the port became beautiful for perhaps five min-utes. The laterite roads that were so ugly and clay-heavy by day became a delicate flower-like pink. It was the hour of content. Men who had left the port for ever would sometimes remember on a grey wet London evening the bloom and glow that faded as soon as it was seen: they would wonder why they had hated the coast and for a space of a drink they would long to return.
Scobie stopped his Morris at one of the great loops of the climbing road and looked back. He was just too late. The flower had withered105 upwards from the town; the white stones that marked the edge of the precipitous hill shone like can-dles in the new dusk.
‘I wonder if anybody will be there, Ticki.’
‘Sure to be. It’s library night.’
‘Do hurry up, dear. It’s so hot in the car. I’ll be glad when the rains come.’
‘Will you?’
‘If only they just went on for a month or two and men stopped.’
Scobie made the right reply. He never listened while his wife talked. He worked steadily106 to the even current of sound, but if a note of distress107 were struck he was aware of it at once. Like a wireless108 operator with a novel open in front of him, he could disregard every signal except the ship’s symbol and the SOS. He could even work better while she talked than when she was silent for so long as his ear-drum registered those tranquil109 sounds - the gossip of the club, comments on the sermons preached by Father Rank, the plot of a new novel, even complaints about the weather - he knew that all was well. It was silence that stopped him working - silence in which he might look up and see tears waiting in the eyes for his atten-tion.
‘There’s a rumour110 going round that the refrigerators were all sunk last week.’
He considered, while she talked, his line of action with the Portuguese111 ship that was due in as soon as the boom opened in the morning. The fortnightly arrival of a neutral ship provi-ded an outing for the junior officers: a change of food, a few glasses of real wine, even the opportunity of buying some small decorative112 object in the ship’s store for a girl. In return they had only to help the Field Security Police in the exam-ination of passports, the searching of the suspects’ cabins: all the hard and disagreeable work was done by the F.S.P., in the hold, sifting114 sacks of rice for commercial diamonds, or in the heat of the kitchen, plunging115 the hand into tins of lard, dis-embowelling the stuffed turkeys. To try to find a few dia-monds in a liner of fifteen thousand tons was absurd: no malign116 tyrant117 in a fairy-story had ever set a goose girl a more impossible task, and yet as regularly as the ships called the cypher telegrams came in - ‘So and so travelling first class sus-pected of carrying diamonds. The following members of the ship’s crew suspected ...’ Nobody ever found anything. He thought: it’s Harris’s turn to go on board, and Eraser can go with him. I’m too old for these excursions. Let the boys have a little fun.
‘Last time half the books arrived damaged.’
‘Did they?’
Judging from the number of cars, he thought, there were not many people at the club yet. He switched off his lights, and waited for Louise to move, but she just sat there with a clen-ched fist showing in the switchboard light ‘Well, dear, here we are,’ he said in the hearty118 voice that strangers took as a mark of stupidity. Louise said, ‘Do you think they all know by this time?’
‘Know what?’
‘That you’ve been passed over.’
‘My dear, I thought we’d finished with all that. Look at all the generals who’ve been passed over since 1940. They won’t bother about a deputy-commissioner.’
She said, ‘But they don’t like me.’
Poor Louise, he thought, it is terrible not to be liked, and his mind went back to his own experience in that early tour when the blacks had slashed his tyres and written insults on his car. ‘Dear, how absurd you are. I’ve never known anyone with so many friends.’ He ran unconvincingly on. ‘Mrs Halifax, Mrs Castle ...’ and then decided119 it was better after all not to list them.
‘They’ll all be waiting there,’ she said, ‘ just waiting for me to walk in ... I never wanted to come to the club tonight. Let’s go home.’
‘We can’t. Here’s Mrs Castle’s car arriving.’ He tried to laugh. ‘We’re trapped, Louise.’ He saw the fist open and close, the damp inefficient120 powder lying like snow in the ridges121 of the knuckles122. ‘Oh, Ticki, Ticki,’ she said, ‘you won’t leave me ever, will you? I haven’t got any friends - not since the Tom Barlows went away.’ He lifted the moist hand and kissed the palm: he was bound by the pathos123 of her unattractiveness.
They walked side by side like a couple of policemen on duty into the lounge where Mrs Halifax was dealing124 out the library books. It is seldom that anything is quite so bad as one fears: there was no reason to believe that they had been the subject of conversation. ‘Goody, goody,’ Mrs Halifax called to them, ‘the new Clemence Dane’s arrived.’ She was the most inoffensive woman in the station; she had long untidy hair, and one found hairpins125 inside the library books where she had marked her place. Scobie felt it quite safe to leave his wife in her company, for Mrs Halifax had no malice126 and no capacity for gossip; her memory was too bad for anything to lodge54 there for long: she read the same novels over and over again without knowing it.
Scobie joined a group on the verandah. Fellowes, the sani-tary inspector127, was talking fiercely to Reith, the Chief Assistant Colonial Secretary, and a naval128 officer called Brigstock. ‘After all this is a club,’ he was saying, ‘not a railway refreshment-room.’ Ever since Fellowes had snatched his house, Scobie had done his best to like the man - it was one of the rules by which he set his life, to be a good loser. But sometimes he found it very hard to like Fellowes. The hot evening had not been good to him: the thin damp ginger129 hair, the small prickly moustache, the goosegog eyes, the scarlet130 cheeks, and the old Lancing tie. ‘Quite,’ said Brigstock, swaying slightly.
‘What’s the trouble?’ Scobie asked.
Reith said, ‘He thinks we are not exclusive enough.’ He spoke131 with the comfortable irony132 of a man who had in his time been completely exclusive, who had in fact excluded from his solitary133 table in the Protectorate everyone but him-self. Fellowes said hotly, ‘There are limits,’ fingering for con-fidence 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 undesirables134. I’m not a snob135, 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 civilian136 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 inspec-tor’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 distinguished137 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 Wilderness138 of arm-chairs, pretending to look at a map on the wall. His pale face shone and trickled139 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 appoint-ment 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 snobbish140. Any new face that didn’t ‘know’ was welcome.
‘Well,’ Wilson said, and fingered desperately141 at his thin moustache, ‘well...’ It was as if he were gathering strength for a great confession142 or a great evasion143.
‘Detective stories?’ Louise asked.
‘I don’t mind detective stories,’ Wilson said uneasily. ‘Some detective stories.’
‘Personally,’ Louise said, ‘I like poetry.’
‘Poetry,’ Wilson said, ‘yes.’ He took his fingers reluctantly away from his moustache, and something in his dog-like look of gratitude144 and hope made Scobie think with happiness: have I really found her a friend?
‘I like poetry myself,’ Wilson said.
Scobie moved away towards the bar: once again a load was lifted from his mind. The evening was not spoilt: she would come home happy, go to bed happy. During one night a mood did not change, and happiness would survive until he left to go on duty. He could sleep...
He saw a gathering of his junior officers in the bar. Fraser was there and Tod and a new man from Palestine with the extraordinary name of Thimblerigg. Scobie hesitated to go in. They were enjoying themselves, and they would not want a senior officer with them. ‘Infernal cheek,’ Tod was saying. They were probably talking about poor Wilson. Then before he could move away he heard Eraser’s voice. ‘He’s punished for it. Literary Louise has got him.’ Thimblerigg gave a small gurgling laugh, a bubble of gin forming on a plump lip.
Scobie walked rapidly back into the lounge. He went full tilt145 into an arm-chair and came to a halt. His vision moved jerkily back into focus, but sweat dripped into his right eye. The fingers that wiped it free shook like a drunkard’s. He told himself: Be careful. This isn’t a climate for emotion. It’s a climate for meanness, malice, snobbery146, but anything like hate or love drives a man off his head. He remembered Bow-ers sent home for punching the Governor’s A.D.C. at a party, Makin the missionary147 who ended in an asylum148 at Chislehurst.
‘It’s damned hot,’ he said to someone who loomed149 vaguely beside him.
‘You look bad, Scobie. Have a drink.’
‘No, thank you. Got to drive round on inspection150.’ Beside the bookshelves Louise was talking happily to Wil-son, but he could feel the malice and snobbery of the world padding up like wolves around her. They wouldn’t even let her enjoy her books, he thought, and his hand began to shake again. Approaching, he heard her say in her kindly151 Lady Bountiful manner, ‘You must come and have dinner with us one day. I’ve got a lot of books that might interest you,’
‘ I’d love to,’ Wilson said. ‘Just ring us up and take pot luck.’
Scobie thought: What are those others worth that they have the nerve to sneer152 at any human being? He knew every one of her faults. How often he had winced153 at her patronage154 of stran-gers. He knew each phrase, each intonation155 that alienated156 others. Sometimes he longed to warn her - don’t wear that dress, don’t say that again, as a mother might teach a daugh-ter, but he had to remain silent, aching with the foreknow-ledge of her loss of friends. The worst was when he detected in his colleagues an extra warmth of friendliness157 towards him-self, as though they pitied him. What right have you, he longed to exclaim, to criticize her? This is my doing. This is what I’ve made of her. She wasn’t always like this.
He came abruptly158 up to them and said, ‘My dear, I’ve got to go round the beats,’
‘Already?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ll stay, dear. Mrs Halifax win run me home.’
‘I wish you’d come with me.’
‘What? Round the beats? It’s ages since I’ve been.’
‘That’s why I’d like you to come.’ He lifted her hand and kissed it: it was a challenge. He proclaimed to the whole club that he was not to be pitied, that he loved his wife, that they were happy. But nobody that mattered saw - Mrs Halifax was busy with the books, Reith had gone long ago, Brigstock was in the bar, Fellowes talked too busily to Mrs Castle to no-tice any dung-nobody saw except Wilson. Louise said, ‘I’ll come another time, dear. But Mrs Halifax has just promised to run Mr Wilson home by our house. There’s a book I want to tend him.’
Scobie felt an immense gratitude to Wilson. ‘That’s fine,’ he said, ‘fine. But stay and have a drink till I get back. I’ll run you home to the Bedford. I shan’t be late.’ He put a hand on Wilson’s shoulder and prayed silently: Don’t let her pat-ronize him too far: don’t let her be absurd: let her keep this friend at least. ‘I won’t say good night,’ he said, ‘I’ll expect to see you when I get back.’
‘It’s very kind of you, sir.’
‘You mustn’t sir me. You’re not a policeman, Wilson. Thank your stars for that.’
5
Scobie was later than he expected. It was the encounter with Yusef that delayed him. Half-way down the hill he found Yusef ‘s car stuck by the roadside, with Yusef sleeping quietly in the back: the light from Scobie’s car lit up the large pasty face, the lick of his white hair falling over the forehead, and just touched the beginning of the huge thighs160 in their tight white drill. Yusef’s shirt was open at the neck and tendrils of black breast-hair coiled around the buttons.
‘Can I help you?’ Scobie unwillingly162 asked, and Yusef opened his eyes: the gold teeth fitted by his brother, the den-tist, flashed instantaneously like a torch. If Fellowes drives by now, what a story, Scobie thought. The deputy-commissioner meeting Yusef, the store-keeper, clandestinely163 at night. To give help to a Syrian was only a degree less dangerous than to receive help.
‘Ah, Major Scobie,’ Yusef said, ‘a friend in need is a friend indeed.’
‘Can I do anything for you?’
‘We have been stranded164 a half hour,’ Yusef said. ‘The cars have gone by, and I have thought - when will a Good Samari-tan appear?’
‘I haven’t any spare oil to pour into your wounds, Yusef.’
‘Ha, ha, Major Scobie. That is very good. But if you would just give me a lift into town...’
Yusef settled himself into the Morris, easing a large thigh159 against the brakes.
‘Your boy had better come in at the back.’
‘Let him stay here,’ Yusef said. ‘He will mend the car if he knows it is the only way he can get to bed.’ He folded his large fat hands over his knee and said, ‘You have a very fine car, Major Scobie. You must have paid four hundred pounds for if
‘One hundred and fifty,’ Scobie said.
‘I would pay you four hundred.’
‘It isn’t for sale, Yusef. Where would I get another?’
‘Not now, but maybe when you leave.’
‘I’m not leaving.’
‘Oh, I had heard that you were resigning, Major Scobie.’
‘No.’
‘We shopkeepers hear so much - but all of it is unreliable gossip.’
‘How’s business?’
‘Oh, not bad. Not good.’
‘What I hear is that you’ve made several fortunes since the war. Unreliable gossip of course.’
‘Well, Major Scobie. you know how it is. My store in Sharp Town, that does fine because I am there to keep an eye on it. My store in Macaulay Street - that does not bad because my sister is there. But my store? in Durban Street and Bond Street they do badly. I am cheated all the time. Like all my country-men, I cannot read or write, and everyone cheats me.’
‘Gossip says you can keep all your stocks in all your stores in your head.’
Yusef chuckled165 and beamed. ‘My memory is not bad. But it keeps me awake at night, Major Scobie. Unless I take a lot of whisky I keep thinking about Durban Street and Bond Street and Macaulay Street’
‘Which shall I drop you at now?’
‘Oh, now I go home to bed, Major Scobie. My house in Sharp Town, if you please. Wont166 you come in and have a little whisky?’
‘Sorry. I’m on duty, Yusef.’
‘It is very kind of you, Major Scobie, to give me this lift. Would you let me show my gratitude by sending Mrs Scobie a roll of silk?’
‘Just what I wouldn’t like, Yusef.’
‘Yes, yes, I knew. It’s very hard, all this gossip. Just be-cause there are some Syrians like Tallit’
‘You would like Tallit out of your way, wouldn’t you, Yusef?’
‘Yes, Major Scobie. It would be for my good, but it would also be for your good.’
‘You sold him some of those fake diamonds last year, didn’t you?’
‘Oh, Major Scobie, you don’t really believe I’d get the bet-ter of anyone like that. Some of the poor Syrians suffered a great deal over those diamonds, Major Scobie. It would be a shame to deceive your own people like that.’
‘They shouldn’t have broken the law by buying diamonds. Some of them even had the nerve to complain to the police.’
‘They are very ignorant, poor fellows.’
‘You weren’t as ignorant as all that were you, Yusef?’
‘If you ask me, Major Scobie, it was Tallit. Otherwise, why does he pretend I sold him the diamonds?’
Scobie drove slowly. The rough street was crowded. Thin black bodies weaved like daddy-long-legs in the dimmed head-lights. ‘How long will the rice shortage go on, Yusef?’
‘You know as much about that as I do, Major Scobie.’
‘I know these poor devils can’t get rice at the controlled price.’
‘I’ve heard. Major Scobie, that they can’t get their share of the free distribution unless they tip the policeman at the gate.’
It was quite true. There was a retort in this colony to every accusation167. There was always a blacker corruption168 elsewhere to be pointed169 at. The scandalmongers of the secretariat ful-filled a useful purpose - they kept alive the idea that no one was to be trusted. That was better than complacence. Why, he wondered, swerving170 the car to avoid a dead pye-dog, do I love this place so much? Is it because here human nature hasn’t had time to disguise itself? Nobody here could ever talk about a heaven on earth. Heaven remained rigidly171 in its proper place on the other side of death, and on this side flourished the in-justices, the cruelties, the meanness that elsewhere people so cleverly hushed up. Here you could love human beings nearly as God loved them, knowing the worst: you didn’t love a pose, a pretty dress, a sentiment artfully assumed. He felt a sudden affection for Yusef. He said, ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right. One day, Yusef, you’ll find my foot under your fat arse.’
‘Maybe, Major Scobie, or maybe well be friends together. That is what I should like more than anything in the world.’
They drew up outside the Sharp Town house and Yusef s steward ran out with a torch to light him in. ‘Major Scobie,’ Yusef said, ‘it would give me such pleasure to give you a glass of whisky. I think I could help you a lot. I am very patriotic172, Major Scobie.’
‘That’s why you are hoarding173 your cottons against a Vichy invasion, isn’t it? They will be worth more than English pounds.’
‘The Esperan?a is in tomorrow, isn’t she?’
‘Probably.’
‘What a waste of time it is searching a big ship like that for diamonds. Unless you know beforehand exactly where they are. You know that when the ship returns to Angola a sea-man reports where you looked. You will sift113 all the sugar in the hold. You will search the lard in the kitchens because someone once told Captain Druce that a diamond can be heated and dropped in the middle of a tin of lard. Of course the cabins and the ventilators and the lockers174. Tubes of tooth-paste. Do you think one day you will find one little diamond?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t either.’
6
A hurricane-lamp burned at each corner of the wooden pyramids of crates175. Across the black slow water he could just make out the naval depot176 ship, a disused liner, where she lay, so it was believed, on a reef of empty whisky bottles. He stood quietly for a while breathing in the heavy smell of the sea. Within half a mile of him a whole convoy lay at anchor, but all he could detect were the long shadow of the depot ship and a scatter177 of small red lights as though a street were up: he could hear nothing from the water but the water itself, slap-ping against the jetties. The magic of this place never failed him: here he kept his foothold on the very edge of a strange continent.
Somewhere in the darkness two rats scuffled. These water-side rats were the size of rabbits. The natives called them pigs and ate them roasted; the name helped to distinguish them from the wharf178 rats, who were a human breed. Walking along a light railway Scobie made in the direction of the markets. At the corner of a warehouse179 he came on two policemen.
‘Anything to report?’
‘No, sah.’
‘Been along this way?’
‘Oh yes, sah, we just come from there.’
He knew that they were lying: they would never go alone to that end of the wharf, the playground of the human rats, unless they had a white officer to guard them. The rats were cowards but dangerous - boys of sixteen or so, armed with razors or bits of broken bottle, they swarmed in groups around the warehouses180, pilfering181 if they found an easily-opened case, settling like flies around any drunken sailor who stumbled their way, occasionally slashing182 a policeman who had made himself unpopular with one of their innumerable relatives. Gates couldn’t keep them off the wharf: they swam round from Kru Town or the fishing beaches.
‘Come on,’ Scobie said, ‘we’ll have another look.’
With weary patience the policemen trailed behind him, half a mile one way, half a mile the other. Only the pigs moved on the wharf, and the water slapped. One of the policemen said self-righteously, ‘Quiet night, sah.’ They shone their torches with self-conscious assiduity from one side to another, lighting183 the abandoned chassis184 of a car, an empty truck, the corner of a tarpaulin185, a bottle standing186 at the corner of a warehouse with palm leaves stuffed in for a cork187. Scobie said, ‘What’s that?’ One of his official nightmares was an incendiary bomb: it was so easy to prepare: every day men from Vichy territory came into town with smuggled188 cattle - they were encouraged to come in for the sake of the meat supply. On this side of the border native saboteurs were being trained in case of in-vasion : why not on the other side?
‘Let me see it,’ he said, but neither of the policemen moved to touch it.
‘Only native medicine, sah,’ one of them said with a skin-deep sneer.
Scobie picked the bottle up. It was a dimpled Haig, and when he drew out the palm leaves the stench of dog’s pizzle and nameless decay blew out like a gas escape. A nerve in his head beat with sudden irritation189. For no reason at all he re-membered Fraser’s flushed face and Thimblerigg’s giggle190. The stench from the bottle moved him with nausea191, and he felt his fingers polluted by the palm leaves. He threw the bottle over the wharf, and the hungry mouth of the water received it with a single belch192, but the contents were scattered193 on the air, and the whole windless place smelt194 sour and ammoniac. The policemen were silent: Scobie was aware of their mute dis-approval. He should have left the bottle where it stood: it had been placed there for one purpose, directed at one per-son, but now that its contents had been released, it was as if the evil thought were left to wander blindly through the air, to settle maybe on the innocent.
‘Good night,’ Scobie said and turned abruptly on his heel. He had not gone twenty yards before he heard their boots scuffling rapidly away from the dangerous area.
Scobie drove up to the police station by way of Pitt Street. Outside the brothel on the left-hand side the girls were sitting along the pavement taking a bit of air. Within the police sta-tion behind the black-out blinds the scent195 of a monkey house thickened for the night. The sergeant on duty took his legs off the table in the charge-room and stood to attention.
‘Anything to report?’
‘Five drunk and disorderly, sah. I lock them in the big cell.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Two Frenchmen, sah, with no passes.’
‘Black?’
‘Yes, sah.’
‘Where were they found?’
‘In Pitt Street, sah.’
‘I’ll see them in the morning. What about the launch? Is it running all right? I shall want to go out to the Esperan?a.’
‘It’s broken, sah. Mr Fraser he try to mend it, sah, but it humbug all the time.’
‘What time does Mr Fraser come on duty?’
‘Seven, sah.’
‘Tell him I shan’t want him to go out to the Esperan?a. I’m going out myself. If the launch isn’t ready, I’ll go with the F.S.P.’
‘Yes, sah.’
Climbing again into his car, pushing at the sluggish196 starter, Scobie thought that a man was surely entitled to that much revenge. Revenge was good for the character: out of revenge grew forgiveness. He began to whistle, driving back through Km Town. He was almost happy: he only needed to be quite certain that nothing had happened at the club after he left, that at this moment, 10.55 p.m., Louise was at ease, content He could face the next hour when the next hour arrived.
7
Before he went indoors he walked round to the seaward side of the house to check the black-out. He could hear the mur-mur of Louise’s voice inside: she was probably reading poetry. He thought: by God, what right has that young fool Fraser to despise her for that? and then his anger moved away again, like a shabby man, when he thought of Fraser’s disappoint-ment in the morning - no Portuguese visit, no present for his best girl, only the hot humdrum197 office day. Feeling for the handle of the back door to avoid flashing his torch, he tore his right hand on a splinter. He came into the lighted room and saw that his hand was dripping with blood. ‘Oh, darling,’ Louise said, ‘what have you done?’ and covered her face. She couldn’t bear the sight of blood. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ Wilson asked. He tried to rise, but he was sitting in a low chair at Louise’s feet and his knees were piled with books.
‘It’s all right,’ Scobie said. ‘It’s only a scratch. I can see to it myself. Just tell Ali to bring a bottle of water.’ Half-way upstairs he heard the voice resume. Louise said, ‘A lovely poem about a pylon198.’ Scobie walked into the bathroom, dis-turbing a rat that had been couched on the cool rim199 of the bath, like a cat on a gravestone.
Scobie sat down on the edge of the bath and let his hand drip into the lavatory200 pail among the wood shavings. Just as in his own office the sense of home surrounded him. Louise’s ingenuity201 had been able to do little with this room: the bath of scratched enamel with a single tap which always ceased to work before the end of the dry season: the tin bucket under the lavatory seat emptied once a day: the fixed202 basin with another useless tap: bare floorboards: drab green black-out curtains. The only improvements Louise had been able to im-pose were the cork that by the bath, the bright white medicine cabinet.
The rest of the room was all his own. It was like a relic203 of his youth carried from house to house. It had been like this years ago in his first house before he married. This was the room in which he had always been alone.
Ali came in, his pink soles flapping on the floorboards, carrying a bottle of water from the filter. ‘The back door hum-bug me,’ Scobie explained. He held his hand out over the washbasin, while Ali poured the water over the wound. The boy made gentle clucking sounds of commiseration204: his hands were as gentle as a girl’s. When Scobie said impatiently, ‘That’s enough,’ Ali paid him no attention. ‘Too much dirt,’ he said.
‘Now iodine205.’ The smallest scratch in this country turned green if it were neglected for an hour. ‘Again,’ he said, ‘pour it over,’ wincing206 at the sting. Down below out of the swing of voices the word ‘beauty’ detached itself and sank back into the trough. ‘Now the Elastoplast’
‘No,’ Ali said, ‘no. Bandage better.’
‘All right. Bandage then.’ Yean ago he had taught Ali to bandage: now he could tie one as expertly as a doctor.
‘Good night, Ali. Go to bed. I shan’t want you again.’
‘Missus want drinks.’
‘No. I’ll attend to the drinks. You can go to bed.’ Alone he sat down again on the edge of the bath. The wound had jarred him a little and anyway he was unwilling161 to join the two down-stairs, for his presence would embarrass Wilson. A man couldn’t listen to a woman reading poetry in the presence of an outsider. ‘I had rather be a kitten and cry mew ...’ but that wasn’t really his attitude. He did not despise: he just couldn’t understand such bare relations of intimate feeling. And besides he was happy here, sitting where the rat had sat, in his own world. He began to think of the Esperan?a and of the next day’s work.
‘Darling,’ Louise called up the stairs, ‘are you all right? Can you drive Mr Wilson home?’
‘I can walk, Mrs Scobie.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Coming,’ Scobie called. ‘Of course I’ll drive you back.’ When he joined them Louise took the bandaged hand tenderly in hers. ‘Oh the poor hand,’ she said. ‘Does it hurt?’ She was not afraid of the clean white bandage: it was like a patient in a hospital with the sheets drawn tidily up to the chin. One could bring grapes and never know the details of the scalpel wound out of sight. She put her lips to the bandage and left a little smear207 of orange lipstick208.
‘It’s quite all right,’ Scobie said.
‘Really, sir. I can walk.’
‘Of course you won’t walk. Come along, get in.’
The light from the dashboard lit up a patch of Wilson’s extraordinary suit. He leant out of the car and cried, ‘Good night, Mrs Scobie. It’s been lovely. I can’t thank you enough.’ The words vibrated with sincerity209: it gave them the sound of a foreign language - the sound of English spoken in England. Here intonations210 changed in the course of a few months, became high-pitched and insincere, or flat and guarded. You could tell that Wilson was fresh from home.
‘You must come again soon,’ Scobie said, as they drove down the Burnside road towards the Bedford Hotel, remem-bering Louise’s happy face.
8
The smart of his wounded hand woke Scobie at two in the morning. He lay coiled like a watch-spring on the outside of the bed, trying to keep his body away from Louise’s: wherever they touched - if it were only a finger lying against a finger -sweat started. Even when they were separated the heat trem-bled between them. The moonlight lay on the dressing-table like coolness and lit the bottles of lotion211, the little pots of cream, the edge of a photograph frame. At once he began to listen for Louise’s breathing.
It came irregularly in jerks. She was awake. He put his hand up and touched the hot moist hair: she lay stiffly, as though she were guarding a secret. Sick at heart, knowing what he would find, he moved his fingers down until they touched her lids. She was crying. He felt an enormous tiredness, bracing212 himself to comfort her. ‘Darling,’ he said, ‘I love you.’ It was how he always began. Comfort, like the act of sex, developed a routine.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘I know.’ It was how she always answered. He blamed himself for being heartless because the idea oc-curred to him that it was two o’clock: this might go on for hours, and at six the day’s work began. He moved the hair away from her forehead and said, ‘The rains will soon be here. You’ll feel better then.’
‘I feel all right,’ she said and began to sob213.
‘What is it, darling? Tell me.’ He swallowed. ‘Tell Ticki.’ He hated the name she had given him, but it always worked. She said, ‘Oh Ticki, Ticki. I can’t go on.’
‘I thought you were happy tonight’
‘I was - but think of being happy because a U.A.C. clerk was nice to me. Ticki, why won’t they like me?’
‘Don’t be silly, darling. It’s just the heat: it makes you fancy things. They all like you.’
‘Only Wilson,’ she repeated with despair and shame and began to sob again.
‘Wilson’s all right.’
‘They won’t have him at the club. He gate-crashed with the dentist They’ll be laughing about him and me. Oh Ticki, Ticki, please let me go away and begin again.’
‘Of course, darling,’ he said, ‘of course,’ staring out through the net and through the window to the quiet flat infested214 sea. ‘Where to?’
‘I could go to South Africa and wait until you have leave. Ticki, you’ll be retiring soon. I’ll get a home ready for you, Ticki.’
He flinched215 a little away from her, and then hurriedly in case she had noticed, lifted her damp hand and kissed the palm. ‘It will cost a lot, darling.’ The thought of retirement216 set his nerves twitching217 and straining: he always prayed that death would come first He had prepared his life insurance in that hope: it was payable218 only on death. He thought of a home, a permanent home: the gay artistic219 curtains, the book-shelves full of Louise’s books, a pretty tiled bathroom, no office anywhere - a home for two until death, no change any more before eternity220 settled in.
‘Ticki, I can’t bear it any longer here.’
‘I’ll have to figure it out, darling.’
‘Ethel Maybury’s in South Africa, and the Collinses. We’ve got friends in South Africa.’
‘Prices are high.’
‘You could drop some of your silly old life insurances, Ticki. And, Ticki, you could economize221 here without me. You could have your meals at the mess and do without the cook.’
‘He doesn’t cost much.’
‘Every little helps, Ticki.’
‘I’d miss you,’ he said.
‘No, Ticki, you wouldn’t,’ she said, and surprised him by the range of her sad spasmodic understanding. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘there’s nobody to save for.’
He said gently, ‘I’ll try and work something out You know if it’s possible I’d do anything for you - anything.’
‘This isn’t just two in the morning comfort, Ticki, is it? You will do something?’
‘Yes, dear. I’ll manage somehow.’ He was surprised how quickly she went to sleep: she was like a tired carrier who has slipped his load. She was asleep before he had finished his sentence, clutching one of his fingers like a child, breathing as easily. The load lay beside him now, and he prepared to lift it.
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1
barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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2
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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3
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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5
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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6
jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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7
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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8
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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10
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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12
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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13
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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14
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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15
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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16
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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17
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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18
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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19
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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20
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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21
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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22
flopping
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| n.贬调v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的现在分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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23
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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24
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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25
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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26
treasurers
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| （团体等的）司库，财务主管( treasurer的名词复数 ) | |
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27
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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28
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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29
garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
grandiloquent
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| adj.夸张的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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32
kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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33
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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34
excrement
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| n.排泄物，粪便 | |
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35
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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38
ebbs
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| 退潮( ebb的名词复数 )； 落潮； 衰退 | |
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39
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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40
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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41
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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42
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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43
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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44
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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45
agilely
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| adv.敏捷地 | |
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46
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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48
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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50
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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51
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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52
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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53
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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54
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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55
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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56
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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57
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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58
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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59
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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60
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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61
palaver
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| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
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62
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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63
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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64
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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65
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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66
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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67
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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68
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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69
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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70
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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71
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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72
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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73
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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74
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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75
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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76
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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77
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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78
relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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79
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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80
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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81
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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82
bungalows
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| n.平房( bungalow的名词复数 )；单层小屋，多于一层的小屋 | |
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83
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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84
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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85
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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86
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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87
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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88
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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89
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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90
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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91
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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92
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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93
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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94
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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95
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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96
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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97
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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99
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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100
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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101
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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102
smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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103
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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104
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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105
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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106
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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107
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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108
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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109
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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110
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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111
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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112
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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113
sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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114
sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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115
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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116
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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117
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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118
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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119
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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120
inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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121
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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122
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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123
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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124
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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125
hairpins
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| n.发夹( hairpin的名词复数 ) | |
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126
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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127
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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128
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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129
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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130
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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131
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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132
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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133
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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134
undesirables
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| 不受欢迎的人，不良分子( undesirable的名词复数 ) | |
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135
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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136
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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137
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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138
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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139
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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140
snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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141
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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142
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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143
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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144
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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145
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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146
snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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147
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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148
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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149
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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150
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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151
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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152
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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153
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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155
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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156
alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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157
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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158
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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159
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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160
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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161
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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162
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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163
clandestinely
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| adv.秘密地，暗中地 | |
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164
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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165
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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167
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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168
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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169
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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170
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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171
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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172
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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173
hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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174
lockers
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| n.寄物柜( locker的名词复数 ) | |
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175
crates
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| n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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176
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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177
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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178
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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179
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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180
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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181
pilfering
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的现在分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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182
slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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183
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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184
chassis
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| n.汽车等之底盘；（飞机的）起落架；炮底架 | |
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185
tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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186
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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187
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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188
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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189
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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190
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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191
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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192
belch
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| v.打嗝，喷出 | |
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193
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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194
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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195
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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196
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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197
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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198
pylon
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| n.高压电线架，桥塔 | |
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199
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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200
lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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201
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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202
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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203
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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204
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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205
iodine
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| n.碘，碘酒 | |
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206
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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207
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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208
lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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209
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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210
intonations
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| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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211
lotion
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| n.洗剂 | |
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212
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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213
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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214
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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215
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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216
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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217
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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218
payable
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| adj.可付的，应付的，有利益的 | |
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219
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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220
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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221
economize
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| v.节约，节省 | |
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