Paving the New Road

Chapter 2

5

AUTHOR’S PREFERENCES

MR. SOMERSET MAUGHAM INTERVIEWED

Mr. William Somerset Maugham, the famous author and playwright, who is visiting Sydney, made some interesting observations in an interview yesterday regarding Russia, and on modern literature.

Mr. Maugham was sent to Russia by the British Government in 1917, and he was there during the two revolutions which occurred that year. He is of the opinion that if the Allies had handled the situation properly by giving support to the Provisional Government and combated the unreliability of one or two members of that Government, and the outpouring of German money, the situation might have been saved.

“After the armistice I resumed the most agreeable occupation of the man of letters,” said Mr. Maugham. “In Russia I worked from 9 a.m. till 10 p.m., and I only then realised how jolly it is to be a writer. You have your freedom; you can work when you like, and you are not at anybody’s beck and call. Though you have much less money than is made in many other vocations, and you are exposed to the slings and arrows of the critics, it is a delightful life. All you require are some blank sheets of paper and a fountain pen.” The interviewer suggested that perhaps brains were also necessary, but Mr. Maugham insisted that as far as playwriting was concerned it didn’t require brains, but only a certain knack. “I think this knack is only a natural sense of logic,” continued Mr. Maugham. “Much nonsense is talked about the technique of the drama, but so far as I can see the whole mystery of it is to get a good story and to stick to it like death.”

The Sydney Morning Herald, 1921

They stopped in Darwin long enough to bathe and eat, while the Fokker was refuelled. Wilfred had somehow organised for fresh clothes to be awaiting them at every stop to minimise what they would need to take on board. He had instructed his English tailors by telegram to ensure that trunks of appropriate attire would meet them in Munich.

Milton was a little put out by the traditional nature of the suits which had been supplied by a local tailor under instructions from Rowland’s very conservative brother. The poet’s personal style was flamboyant, occasionally adventurous, as he felt befitted a man of literary sensibilities. He had a penchant for unusual colours and extravagant neckwear.

“I’m sure we can find you something more to your taste in Europe,” Rowland offered, as the poet complained that the dark grey three-piece suit made him look like an undertaker.

Clyde snorted. “Could always rob some gypsies, I suppose.”

“Stop grumbling, Milt,” Edna chided, as she adjusted his tie. “You’d hardly expect Wilfred to order cravats and velvet jackets.” She giggled. “How would he explain it?”

Rowland smiled. The thought amused him.

The airmen joined them for a drink or several before the next leg, which would take them on to Singapore. Kingsford Smith was in excellent spirits and Pethybridge an enthusiastic chorus. And so they drank gin and tonic water in a small bar near the airport and toasted the Southern Cross. McKinnon and Lambert flirted outrageously with Edna, who enjoyed the game, while Kingsford Smith talked of his plan to develop a motor car based on his beloved aeroplane.

“I say, that’s not a bad idea,” Milton said, nodding thoughtfully over his glass. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for investors?”

Clyde groaned. “The suit’s gone to his head,” he muttered.

Kingsford Smith seemed to accept that Milton was a man of means, however, and regaled him with the potential of the venture.

“My capital’s tied up at the moment.” Milton sighed, as if he was in fact burdened with capital. “I do know some chaps who might be interested, though.”

“He means you, Rowly,” Clyde murmured. “The b****y fool’s going to commit your fortune to this b****y aero-car cross-breed.”

Rowland laughed. “I’ll have to squander it somehow… might as well have an aero-car to show for it. Will it have wings, do you suppose?”

When the Southern Cross left Darwin for Singapore, her passengers were slightly less than sober. Perhaps for this reason they were not unduly alarmed that their pilots were in a similar state. Even so, the leg was uneventful. The winds were with them and they made good time, arriving tired and crumpled into the tropical heat. They were duly met by the Australian High Commissioner to the island and made discreetly welcome.

Leaving the valiant Fokker to be refuelled, they checked into the colonial splendour of the Raffles Hotel under the false names on the passports that Hardy had requisitioned for them. Kingsford Smith and the pilots were, of course, recognisable, even in Singapore, and signed their own names with a flourish. They did not appear to notice the subterfuge beside them. Briefly Rowland did wonder what explanation Hardy had given for the fact that the Southern Cross’ passengers were travelling incognito. But perhaps he had not given an explanation at all; perhaps he had just given money.

The suites, like the rest of the hotel, were lavish invocations of the British Raj—teak wood floors and hand-made carpets underfoot; majestic ornate plasterwork above; furniture that hinted at the East in a style that befitted the glory of the Empire. A barber was sent up as they bathed and dressed for the evening.

Rowland regarded his own reflection a little dubiously as he deftly manipulated a bow tie. He wasn’t really sure about the evening attire which had been left for them in the suite. White dinner jackets were not entirely new. They had become quite popular in Australia after some visiting duke had adopted the trend, but Rowland had never worn one before. He’d always considered the style unnecessarily loud, and whatever visiting Englishmen may have thought, Sydney was not the tropics. Still, they were in Singapore, and he was supposedly an art dealer.

Milton was much more pleased with his reflection, but then, he usually was. They had all been provided with the white-jacketed dinner suits with slight variations in style. Rowland did wonder who had made these particular selections—some expatriate Old Guardsmen no doubt. He was, if truth be told, rather impressed with the Old Guard’s efficient attention to detail.

Milton sported a black and gold cummerbund rather than the white waistcoat. Rowland found it somewhat garish, but Milton was obviously satisfied. Indeed, the poet fished a tropical flower from one of the suite’s many vases and fashioned a boutonnière to complete the florid ensemble.

Clyde cursed, perspiring already with the humidity as he fumbled with cufflinks. Feeling the heat himself, Rowland opened the doors that led out to the balcony, allowing the salted sea breeze to refresh the room. The sky churned and rumbled, dark with the promise of a tropical storm. The air was heavy and tasted of rain. Rowland watched, glad that they were not still in the air.

Edna waltzed into the suite after a perfunctory knock. She wore an evening gown of green Chinese brocade, which deepened the colour of her eyes. The dress hugged her figure and the straight, tight skirt was split on one side almost to the hip. A boa fashioned entirely from peacock feathers draped over her bare arms. For a moment Rowland forgot to breathe. Clyde whistled. “You couldn’t wear that in Sydney.”

Edna turned for effect. “Isn’t it exotic? I’ve never had anything quite like it. It’s such a shame we’ll have to leave it behind.”

Rowland swallowed. “I’ll have it sent back to Sydney if you like, Ed.”

Edna beamed at him. “Yes, please. I wonder who chose it for me? It doesn’t look like something Wilfred would select.”

Rowland smiled. “It is a little risqué for Wil.”

“Aren’t you boys ready yet?” Edna pushed him away to help Clyde with his cufflinks. “I’m famished. What time are we booked for dinner?”

“Not till eight, I’m afraid,” Rowland said apologetically. “We could have a drink at the bar in the meantime… I’m sure they’ll have some sort of hors d’oeuvres to keep you from expiring.”

The Long Bar at Raffles was as elegantly extravagant as the rest of the hotel. Decorated in the style of a Malayan plantation, it had an air of intrepid refinement. It was all but empty when they arrived—a few couples enjoying drinks before dinner and two gentlemen sitting at the bar. The first was quite elderly, distinguished and distinctly British, the second, younger and handsome, his smile very wide. He raised his glass as they walked in and signalled the barman. Both men stood, obviously expecting the party of Australians to join them.

Clyde looked enquiringly at Rowland. “Friends of yours?”

Rowland shook his head. “Never laid eyes on them before.”

The younger gentleman spoke to Edna first, betraying an American origin to his accent. “You look simply gorgeous, my dear. I just couldn’t resist that gown… I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you are equal to it.”

Edna extended her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced…”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Forgive me, darling. Gerald Haxton at your service.” He put his arm around the other man and drew him forward. “And this excellent gentleman is William Somerset Maugham. You must be Miss Millicent Greenway, an exquisite, blushing pearl from the Antipodes.”

Edna was flustered. She was not yet accustomed to her new name, and she was very familiar with the one he introduced.

“Somerset Maugham? The playwright?”

Maugham bowed. He spoke quietly, stammering. “The same.”

Edna glanced at Rowland. Why had William Somerset Maugham and his American friend chosen her gown?

“Perhaps we should all have a drink,” Haxton suggested.

“At least one,” Milton agreed.

On cue the barman placed a tray of cocktails before them.

“Singapore Slings,” Haxton announced, handing a glass to Edna. “Gin, cherry heering, benedictine and fresh pineapple juice—quite possibly this country’s greatest contribution to civilisation.”

“Gentlemen…” Rowland began.

“Mr. Negus, can’t tell you how pleased we are to make your acquaintance.” Haxton, then Maugham, shook his hand. “How is your dear brother?”

“Wilfred?” Rowland said uncertainly.

“Indeed. He wired us that you’d be coming. Asked us to look out for you… see that you had everything you needed.”

Still a little bewildered, Rowland introduced Milton and Clyde as Albert Greenway and Joseph Ryan, though it became clear that the introductions were unnecessary. Haxton and Maugham clearly knew of both their pseudonyms and actual names.

“How is it that you gentlemen are acquainted with my brother?” Rowland asked finally.

“Willy met him during the Great War. Fine officer by all accounts. They’ve kept in touch on and off since… and collaborated occasionally.”

“Wilfred writes plays?” Rowland felt the conversation taking a somewhat surreal turn.

“Good Lord, no!” Maugham spat out despite his stammer.

Haxton surveyed the room before he went on. “Perhaps you are familiar with a collection of stories Willy wrote some years ago—Ashenden?”

“I’m afraid not,” Rowland replied awkwardly.

“The British Agent,” Milton said, as he made quick work of his gin cocktail. He raised one brow and spoke with theatrical gravity. “‘There’s just one thing I think you ought to know before you take on this job. And don’t forget it. If you do well you’ll get no thanks and if you get into trouble you’ll get no help. Does that suit you?’”

“By George, you know it!” Haxton exclaimed , beaming at the poet.

“A collection of stories about a well-groomed spy, I believe.”

“Yes, exactly.” Haxton nodded emphatically. He slurped his sling, wiped the froth from his upper lip and sighed in satisfaction before continuing. “Willy has quite the reputation for using personal experience in his work, if you get my meaning. Shall we indulge in another round?”

Rowland had not yet tried his own drink, but another tray of gin-slings appeared almost immediately.

Rowland turned to Maugham, who had, he noticed, said very little. “Are you saying you were a spy, Mr. Maugham, or that Wilfred was a spy?”

Haxton moved in. He threw his arm around Rowland’s shoulders, lowering his voice. “Willy doesn’t say much,” he said. “The darned stammer, you know.”

Maugham stood watching them, quietly sipping his drink.

Haxton overheard Edna talking to the barman about food, and became immediately distracted, ordering mooncakes and other eastern delicacies with a gin-sling in each hand.

Rowland shook his head, more than a little bemused by the whole exchange.

A tap on the shoulder caught his attention, and William Somerset Maugham motioned him away from the bar. “Shall we walk?” he said carefully.

Glancing just momentarily at his friends, who were now engrossed in tasting canapés and sweetmeats under Haxton’s guidance, Rowland accompanied the renowned playwright onto the wide verandah. Maugham took a slim gold case from his breast pocket and offered Rowland a cigarette. He lit one himself when Rowland declined.

“I had expected to see Wilfred here, but then he wired me a few days ago that you would be coming instead. I understand that you intend to conduct some sort of intelligence operation in Germany. He’s concerned that you may be out of your depth.” Maugham spoke slowly but smoothly. The stammer was now barely noticeable. “Your brother hoped that I might talk some sense into you, or at least give you some advice.”

Rowland smiled. He was intrigued by Maugham and his sudden wish—and ability— to converse.

It had started to rain. On the verandah the air smelled sweet and the breeze breathed cool relief.

Maugham drew on his cigarette. “You are wondering about my stammer, I expect… it has not for some time been as debilitating as commonly believed.”

“Clearly.”

“I have always found the ability to observe quietly very useful,” Maugham reflected. “An impediment such as mine is an interesting thing… often mistaken for an impediment of the mind rather than the voice. I find it leads men to be less inhibited and circumspect in my presence. Perhaps they believe I cannot understand, or that if I could, I would not in any case be able to repeat it.”

Rowland nodded. “I can see how that would be useful for an intelligence agent.”

Maugham smiled slightly. “No less useful for a writer, my boy. We are first and foremost observers of the world. I believe you are something of an artist?”

Rowland was surprised that Maugham would be aware of such a thing. Wilfred still treated his brother’s determination to paint like some unfortunate habit that would hopefully be outgrown. “Something of one.”

“Well, then, you know what I mean. You will learn a lot more if you wait for something to be revealed rather than if you actively try to uncover it. It’s also a much safer way to proceed.”

Rowland leaned on the balustrade, watching as lightning lit the sky and flashed the hotel’s wet courtyard into colourless clarity. “Are you working with the Old Guard, Mr. Maugham?”

“No. But there are certain courtesies extended between gentlemen of the Empire.”

“Gentlemen?”

Maugham smiled, exhaling perfect rings of smoke. “In 1917 I was sent to Russia to prevent the Bolshevik Revolution… though regrettably my efforts didn’t meet with success. Regardless, this sort of work is best done by gentlemen.”

“Because spying ought to be done politely?” Rowland ventured, amused.

“Because it ought to be done dispassionately… and there is nothing as devoid of passion as the English gentleman.”

“I’m Australian,” Rowland replied.

“Yes… it’s unfortunate.” Maugham sighed heavily. “I knew Peter Bothwell during the Great War.”

“I see. Was he working in intelligence?”

“I’m afraid that sort of information is classified, Mr. Negus.” He straightened, his lower lip jutting just beyond his moustache. “Although Gerry Haxton is no longer welcome in Britain, I am still an Englishman and His Majesty’s servant.”

Rowland sharpened to the aside. “Why is Haxton not welcome in England?”

“He was deported… for, I believe, an act that was described as ‘not buggery’… Apparently he was undesirable, though there are many men who would disagree—which I suppose is what began his trouble in the first place.”

“Oh.” Rowland swigged his gin-sling in the awkward silence, wishing to God he had not asked.

Maugham smiled. “Gerry can be quite forward and, occasionally, indiscriminate with his attentions. He seems to have taken quite a shine to Miss Greenway, but you really don’t need to worry. His interest could not be more platonic.”

“Right… thank you. But Miss Greenway is not… she can do as she pleases.”

“I see. It seems a pity.”

“Quite.”

When Rowland and Maugham returned to the Long Bar, the cocktails had done their work: Gerald Haxton was wearing Edna’s boa around his neck and Milton’s boutonnière behind his ear while belting out a French love song. Edna sat at the bar, laughing. Milton, who was not used to being upstaged in such a manner, watched uneasily.

“Rowly!” Clyde was clearly glad to see their return.

“Robbie,” Maugham corrected. “You will have to get used to your aliases if you hope to carry this off.”

“Yes… Robbie.” Clyde jerked his head towards Haxton. “It might be time to…”

“Gerry—I believe it’s high time we chuffed off to dinner, don’t you think?” Maugham spoke loudly over the din, with the stammer making a reappearance.

Gerald Haxton stopped singing, grinning affably. “Willy! Where did you and Mr. Negus get to? I was beginning to get rather jealous.”

“Dinner,” Rowland said tensely. “We should go to dinner. Would you gentlemen care to join us?”

“Au contraire,” Haxton insisted brightly. “You shall all join us! Come 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…”