ALL THIS whispering was interrupted by the sudden clattering of a chair to the floor, as a woman jumped up and rushed out, in the middle of her meal. Everyone was startled but no one was surprised. It was just Nancy Turner being outrageous again. They were all sorry for poor Archie. There he was, looking miserable, with his fork at his mouth. He was too nice for his own good. Any other man would have sat there, finishing his meal and drinking lots of wine as a gesture of defiance. Archie, though, got up at once, paid his bill, and hurried after her.
Those nearest to their table had heard no quarrel; in fact they had heard nothing, from Nancy at any rate. Archie’s few careful remarks had been unanswered. He was always careful, especially in public, for Nancy was given to bursts of obscenity if thwarted in any way.
She was waiting for him in their car. ‘For Christ’s sake, what kept you?’
‘I had to pay the bill.’
‘Well, get going and don’t dawdle.’
‘What’s the hurry? Do you feel ill?’
‘I want to be the first to tell that conceited cow Hislop.’
Archie’s niceness sometimes made him dense. ‘Tell her what?’
‘That Andrew Sandilands has thrown her over for that haughty black bitch.’
Archie’s thought processes were slow and simple. It seemed to him she had no good reason for saying Sandilands had thrown Jean over; or that Mrs Azaharri had looked at all haughty, and she certainly wasn’t black. Also, even if all those things were true, telling Jean about them was none of Nancy’s business. As her husband he should be trying to prevent her from stirring up mischief, but he was too afraid of her insane rages.
Still, he had to try. ‘It will upset Jean.’
‘Fucking right it will. I hope it has her screaming her head off.’
‘What harm has she ever done you?’
‘She’s sorry for me. That’s what she’s done. Interfering cunts, all of them, and she’s the worst. I’ve never understood what Andrew Sandilands sees in her.’
Once before, from something she’d let slip, he’d got the impression that she fancied Sandilands, though as far as Archie knew she had never spoken to the big Scotsman.
‘She’s vulgar. She’s got a vulgar laugh.’
Jean did have rather a loud laugh and, if she’d had a drink or two, it could become a bit boisterous, but hardly vulgar. Nancy herself, because of her obscenities, was considered by most of the expatriate women as worse than vulgar.
‘I don’t think you should telephone her, Nancy.’
She laughed.
‘I’m serious.’
She laughed again.
At their house she was out of the car and up the steps before he had time to shut the garage door.
He went up the steps slowly. Not for the first time he let the thought of strangling her pass across his mind. He would do it fondly, for he loved her. He remembered the one child they had had, ten years ago, a little girl. She had died in infancy.
He hoped Jean was out and not available, but no, Nancy was through to her immediately. The telephone system was efficient, thanks largely to him. He was Chief Engineer.
‘Hello, Jean. Nancy Turner here.’
He went close enough to hear Jean’s reply. ‘Hello, Nancy. How are you?’
‘Is there a chair handy, Jean? A bottle of whisky? You’re going to need them when you hear what I’ve got to tell you.’
He wished he had the courage to snatch the telephone from her grasp.
Jean was laughing. ‘What terrible news is this then?’
‘Archie and I were at the Gardenia tonight.’
‘You’re home early then.’
‘Guess who was there.’
‘Let me think. His Highness?’
Now and then the Sultan showed himself among the people. He always had bodyguards with him.
‘Not His Highness. Her Highness.’
‘One of his ladies, do you mean? With her face covered?’
‘No. Azaharri. Mrs Azaharri, Abad’s daughter. The lawyer. Her that’s always writing political articles in the newspaper. She’s a widow.’
‘What are you havering about, Nancy? I know who Mrs Azaharri is. What’s wonderful about her being at the Gardenia?’
‘But who do you think she was with?’
Jean laughed. ‘Who the hell cares who she was with?’
‘Oh, I think you’ll care, Jean, you’ll care a lot.’
‘Well, tell me.’
‘Andrew Sandilands. That’s who she was with. Just the two of them. Holding hands.’
‘I didn’t see them holding hands,’ muttered Archie.
If Jean was upset she didn’t show it. On the contrary, her tone was sympathetic: the caring nurse’s, not the enraged lover’s. ‘You’re not well, Nancy. If you don’t get treatment soon you’ll end up in a mental institution. Good night.’
Nancy threw down the telephone with a scream, and rushed into her bedroom, slamming the door shut.
Archie heard her weeping. If it had been the heartbroken weeping of a woman in distress, as indeed she was, he would have felt nothing but compassion; but it wasn’t that kind of weeping, at least not much of it was – it was the weeping of a woman mad with hatred and jealousy. Was it possible that she was in love with Sandilands herself? He had hardly ever looked at her. Whatever his game was with Mrs Azaharri he always kept clear of women likely to cause him trouble, such as married women. Archie did not know him well. No one did. He didn’t let himself be known. But Archie had never heard him say ill of anyone, and had seen him by himself in bars frequented only by Malays and Chinese. He was a lonely decent man and Archie wished him well.