Free Paving the New Road by Sulari Gentill

along.” He offered his arm to Edna and proceeded to lead them from the bar. “Have you enjoyed curry before, my dear? Raffles is famous for its tiffin curry. Traditionally eaten at luncheon, of course, but I’ll have a word. You really must try it … heats the blood …”

6
GOSSIP

THERE is an interesting extract from a letter from Mr. Cuthbert Wells, in Singapore, to his daughter in Adelaide, relating to the wedding of the popular Adelaide girl Miss Alison Thomas, now Mrs. Charles C. T. Sharp. Mr. Wells was in a quandary about the frocking, but he tackled the subject nobly. “I felt greatly honoured when Mrs. Thomas asked me if I would give Alison away at the wedding. I was up very early and down at the hotel at 7.15. Mrs. Thomas, Sharp, and a Mrs. Millar went off first to the cathedral at 7.30 a.m., and Alison and I followed in my car, the former looking very charming in silk georgette dress of a pinky dove grey color with a close-fitting little straw hat (cloche?) with a feather. Only the archdeacon, Graham White, was there beside ourselves, and the ceremony was soon smoothly over. We all—six of us — had a cheerful breakfast at Raffles Hotel, and I was at the office at 9 a.m., while the bridal couple caught the Plancius at 10 a.m. en route to Brastagi, Sumatra, for the honeymoon.
The Mail, 1932
    R owland lay on the chaise, laughing. He had abandoned his dinner jacket and his tie hung loosely around his neck. Edna sat on the rolled arm of the lounge trying to poke the feathers back into her boa. Clyde and Milton had also relinquished their jackets. The poet stood in the middle of the room singing French-soundingnonsense in a quite remarkably accurate impersonation of Haxton. Clyde was drinking like a man trying hard to forget.
    Dinner had been a mildly alarming affair. Raffles, it seemed, was accustomed to Haxton. The waiters and maître d’ barely reacted to the American’s extraordinary antics. While the occasional diner tittered disapprovingly, most seemed to consider it part of Raffles’ exotic charm, some form of spontaneous floor show.
    Maugham had, in the presence of his companion, retreated into an aloof but dignified reserve. Haxton had compensated by becoming increasingly loud and flamboyant. Champagne had accompanied dinner, and by the end of the evening the American did not confine his flirting to Edna. Rowland and Milton were more amused than anything else, but Clyde reacted with noticeable panic and so became the focus of Haxton’s attentions.
    “He was fun though, wasn’t he?” Edna said smiling.
    “No.” Clyde was blunt.
    “Oh, Clyde.” Edna reached over and patted his knee. “You mustn’t take him seriously. Gerry’s quite sweet beneath all that nonsense. He has lovely taste in gowns.”
    “Just let the poor chap drink, Ed.” Rowland put his hands behind his head. “Clyde’s had rather a shock.”
    “Do Mr. Maugham and Gerry actually live here?” Edna asked brightly.
    “Some of the time, I believe,” Rowland replied. “Maugham has a villa in France. Apparently Haxton’s been deported from Britain for some sort of misbehaviour, but of course the French are more understanding …”
    Edna shoved him playfully. Her mother had been French. “Mama always said the English were frightful hypocrites.”
    “Can we please talk about something else?” Clyde begged tersely.
    “Yes,” Milton agreed, taking an armchair opposite the chaise and looking directly at Rowland. “Why did Maugham whisk you away, for instance?”
    Rowland’s brow rose. “He wanted to tell me about Bothwell, I suppose.”
    “What about him?”
    “I’m not entirely sure. Maugham hinted that Bothwell was in some form of intelligence work during the war.”
    “Hinted?”
    “Well, he didn’t say explicitly but I’m quite sure that’s what he meant. I suppose if Bothwell was working for the British Secret Service, it might be treason or some such thing to just come out and tell me.”
    “But Maugham