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XXI
O Western wind, when wilt thou blow, that the small rain down can rain? It was the first of June, the
day of the general meeting, and there had not been a drop of rain yet. As Flory came up the Club path
the sun of afternoon, slanting beneath his hat-brim, was still savage enough to scorch his neck
uncomfortably. The mali staggered along the path, his breast-muscles slippery with sweat, carrying
two kerosene-tins of water on a yoke. He dumped them down, slopping a little water over his lank
brown feet, and salaamed to Flory.
‘Well, mali, is the rain coming?’
The man gestured vaguely towards the west. ‘The hills have captured it, sahib.’
Kyauktada was ringed almost round by hills, and these caught the earlier showers, so that
sometimes no rain fell till almost the end of June. The earth of the flower-beds, hoed into large untidy
lumps, looked grey and hard as concrete. Flory went into the lounge and found Westfield loafing by
the veranda, looking out over the river, for the chicks had been rolled up. At the foot of the veranda a
chokra lay on his back in the sun pulling the punkah rope with his heel and shading his face with a
broad strip of banana leaf.
‘Hullo, Flory! You’ve got thin as a rake.’
‘So’ve you.’
‘H’m, yes. Bloody weather. No appetite except for booze. Christ, won’t I be glad when I hear the
frogs start croaking. Let’s have a spot before the others come. Butler!’
‘Do you know who’s coming to the meeting?’ Flory said, when the butler had brought whisky and
tepid soda.
‘Whole crowd, I believe. Lackersteen got back from camp three days ago. By God, that man’s been
having the time of his life away from his missus! My inspector was telling me about the goings-on at
his camp. Tarts by the score. Must have imported ’em specially from Kyauktada. He’ll catch it all
right when the old woman sees his Club-bill. Eleven bottles of whisky sent out to his camp in a
fortnight.’
‘Is young Verrall coming?’
‘No, he’s only a temporary member. Not that he’d trouble to come anyway, young tick. Maxwell
won’t be here either. Can’t leave camp just yet, he says. He sent word Ellis was to speak for him if
there’s any voting to be done. Don’t suppose there’ll be anything to vote about, though, eh?’ he added,
looking at Flory obliquely, for both of them remembered their previous quarrel on this subject.
‘I suppose it lies with Macgregor.’