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life, not against it. It would be better to be the thickest-skulled pukka sahib who ever hiccuped over
‘Forty years on’, than to live silent, alone, consoling oneself in secret, sterile worlds.
Flory had never been home to England. Why, he could not have explained, though he knew well
enough. In the beginning accidents had prevented him. First there was the War, and after the War his
firm were so short of trained assistants that they would not let him go for two years more. Then at last
he had set out. He was pining for England, though he dreaded facing it, as one dreads facing a pretty
girl when one is collarless and unshaven. When he left home he had been a boy, a promising boy and
handsome in spite of his birthmark; now, only ten years later, he was yellow, thin, drunken, almost
middle-aged in habits and appearance. Still, he was pining for England. The ship rolled westward
over wastes of sea like rough-beaten silver, with the winter trade wind behind her. Flory’s thin blood
quickened with the good food and the smell of the sea. And it occurred to him–a thing he had actually
forgotten in the stagnant air of Burma–that he was still young enough to begin over again. He would
live a year in civilised society, he would find some girl who did not mind his birthmark–a civilised
girl, not a pukka memsahib–and he would marry her and endure ten, fifteen more years of Burma.
Then they would retire–he would be worth twelve or fifteen thousands pounds on retirement, perhaps.
They would buy a cottage in the country, surround themselves with friends, books, their children,
animals. They would be free for ever of the smell of pukka sahibdom. He would forget Burma, the
horrible country that had come near ruining him.
When he reached Colombo he found a cable waiting for him. Three men in his firm had died
suddenly of black-water fever. The firm were sorry, but would he please return to Rangoon at once?
He should have his leave at the earliest possible opportunity.
Flory boarded the next boat for Rangoon, cursing his luck, and took the train back to his
headquarters. He was not at Kyauktada then, but at another Upper Burma town. All the servants were
waiting for him on the platform. He had handed them over en bloc to his successor, who had died. It
was so queer to see their familiar faces again! Only ten days ago he had been speeding for England,
almost thinking himself in England already; and now back in the old stale scene, with the naked black
coolies squabbling over the luggage and a Burman shouting at his bullocks down the road.
The, servants came crowding round him, a ring of kindly brown faces, offering presents. Ko S’la
had brought a sambhur skin, the Indians some sweetmeats and a garland of marigolds, Ba Pe, a young
boy then, a squirrel in a wicker cage. There were bullock carts waiting for the luggage. Flory walked
up to the house, looking ridiculous with the big garland dangling from his neck. The light of the coldweather
evening was yellow and kind. At me gate an old Indian, the colour of earth, was cropping
grass with a tiny sickle. The wives of the cook and the mali were kneeling in front of the servants’
quarters, grinding curry paste on the stone slab.
Something turned over in Flory’s heart. It was one of those moments when one becomes conscious
of a vast change and deterioration in one’s life. For he had realised, suddenly, that in his heart he was
glad to be coming back. This country which he hated was now his native country, his home. He had
lived here ten years, and every particle of his body was compounded of Burmese soil. Scenes like
these–the sallow evening light, the old Indian cropping grass, the creak of the cartwheels, the