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A Late Monsoon

  Barry Huggins

  Copyright © 2014 Barry Huggins

  The right of Barry Huggins to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design © 2014 Vinny Art & Design

  All Rights Reserved

  First Edition: July 2014

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  A Late Monsoon

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  Given time, every great empire will fall, not to revolution from without, but to pride and arrogance from within.

  A Late Monsoon

  The storm broke during the small hours, cooling the night air that felt heavy and oppressive, the way it always felt on the eve of the monsoon. But that was some hours ago and now as the sun neared its zenith it bore down on the lush gardens of Bombay's Harlington Grand Hotel, heating the air as if the storm had never happened.

  The gardens were deserted, as was typically the case as midday approached, but the sheltered veranda offered a comfortable haven, scented by the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle and jasmine, where a soul, weary from the sun could laze in a rattan chair under the cooling air of a ceiling fan and watch for signs of the long awaited monsoon. It was late this year. Everyone had been saying for days that the monsoon of ’62 was going to be a late one, and so far, their predictions were coming to pass. But life went on unimpeded by the caprice of the monsoon and at fifteen minutes to midday precisely, a waiter garbed in white tunics and white gloves opened the stained glass doors from the orchid restaurant onto the veranda and welcomed with a broad smile a man he knew as a regular patron of the Harlington Grand.

  The man stepped out into the glare of the white painted, wooden planking that decked the veranda and walked with a regal step at a pace suited to the searing heat. He carried his paunch, a legacy of his advancing years with reluctant acceptance, but compensated with a straight back, a raised chin and periodic tensing of his diaphragm. Despite his bulk, he moved serenely and with a ghostly presence, aided in some part by his off-white linen suit that shimmered as the dappled sunlight played over the hills and valleys formed by the creases. His walking cane, hewn from beech and tipped with silver swung by his side but he was careful not to tap it on the wooden planks in time with his stride in case he appeared pompous. He walked the full length of the veranda with the seasoned confidence of a man of means and position and came to a halt at the last table where a young man sat reading a two week old edition of the London Times newspaper. The young man wore a navy blue polo shirt, in spite of the hotel management frowning on gentlemen wearing short sleeves in and around the restaurant, or perhaps it was because of it. He figured a gentleman willing to pay their exorbitant bar prices earned the privilege of gauging for himself what length his sleeves ought to be. His hair was still wet at the tips from his late morning swim in the hotel pool which gave it the appearance of being fashionably longer than it was as it crept over the top of his collar.

  The man in the linen suit stood formally, as if standing to attention, a habit instilled from his military years that neither tropical heat nor ageing bones could cause him to relinquish. His shadow fell across the table causing the young man to look up from his newspaper and squint at the bright aura of the linen suit. He motioned with the open palm of his hand towards the vacant seat at the table, then resumed reading his newspaper. The older man acknowledged the invitation with an imperceptible nod, took off his panama hat and dropped it on one side of the table, then peered into the half empty glass in front of the young man. “What’s that you’re drinking?”

  “Gin,” said the young man.

  “Bit early for gin, isn’t it?”

  “Not sure what the time of day has to do with it, George. If I feel like a gin, I don’t have to consult the clock to confirm my feelings and seek its approval,” the young man replied without looking up.

  George raised his hand and a white attired waiter came over briskly. “I’ll have one of those,” he said to the waiter, pointing at the gin. “No ice, slice of fresh lime. And I mean freshly cut, not one that’s been sitting around the bar all morning playing host to the blasted mosquitoes and every flying thing under the sun," he said, raising his cane at the waiter for emphasis. He shifted his rattan chair a little deeper onto the veranda so he was clear of the sun that was starting to encroach, then peered over the top of the young man’s newspaper and said in a low voice, as if unveiling a guarded secret, “There’s a vacant position coming up next month on the foreign desk. Average sort of salary, but generous expense account and a bit of travel - get you out of Bombay a few days a month. Are you interested?”

  “No,” said the young man.

  “I knew you’d say, no.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “Because, my boy, there will come a day when you are no longer so young and women will no longer fall at your feet and the world will not smile so favourably on a man in his middle years with no assets, and on that day you will be hungry and frightened and you will jump at the offer I extend to you.”

  “If I get that old and that day comes, you will be long dead and no longer in a position to make such offers.”

  “You remind me of myself when I was your age,” the older man said.

  “No I don’t. That’s such a cliché. You were never like me. When you were my age you were in business with my father. You were diligent, punctual and responsible. Why can’t you be more like George when he was your age, is the phrase my father likes to assault me with anytime I air a view that didn’t originate in his mind.”

  “Yes, you’re quite right, my boy. Perhaps I just wish I had been like you, so much so that in the fantasised memory of my youth, I actually was. But I would have liked to have been more of a rebel, like you.”

  “I’m not a rebel. Rebels have beards and names like Che Guevara. They don't lounge around expensive hotels with baby smooth chins drinking overpriced gin. All I'm doing is living by my own rules and not the rules of the world according to my father. That doesn’t make me a rebel, just an independent thinker.”

  “Nothing wrong with independent thinking, my boy, it’s what made the Empire great.”

  "Really? I thought it was the occupation and subjugation of foreign lands and their people and the plundering of their natural resources, and aggressive protectionist trade policies. I could go on, but what do I know? I’m just a Cambridge dropout who stopped reading politics because all the propaganda made me nauseous.”

  The older man smiled. “You know, there’s a conservative, fearful part of me that sees you as a contemptible cynic, but there’s another part of me that sees you as one of the new breed that is starting to change our old world. In years to come, people will look back on this decade and say the ‘60s saw the birth of revolutionary thinkers that changed the way we conducted our lives. God knows where it's all going to lead us though.”

  “You should be careful, George, you’re starting to sound radical, questioning the establishment like that. Her Majesty will have you ostracised or castrated or whatever she does to dissident subjects these days.”

  “You can scoff, but I’m not as immune as you think
to the truth of change and revolt. I am not so deeply ensconced in the trappings of my privileged world so as to be blind to the changing patterns of human behaviour.”

  “Have you mentioned this to my father? You should - you might save him from himself.”

  “How is your father?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Oh yes, he disinherited you, didn’t he?”

  “No, I chose to cut him loose and told him to give my inheritance to one of his more deserving, lap dog protégés, and leave me to run my own life.”

  “Well, whether he disinherited you or you him, the end result is the same, you haven’t a pot to piss in - vulgar phrase, I know, but sometimes the vulgar ones are so much more honest than the socially acceptable alternatives. Is that a new Rolex you’re wearing?”

  “Yes,” the young man answered.

  “I mean a real Rolex, not one of those nasty imported fakes they sell down at the quayside?”

  The young man unfastened the clasp of the watch and tossed it to the older man carelessly without taking his eyes off the newspaper. “Careful,” said the older man. “That’s no way to treat a Rolex, assuming that’s what I’m holding. He took off his glasses and brought the watch close to his eyes, scrutinizing the face and the bracelet like a diamond merchant. He hummed a vague