No Comebacks

'Disgusting,' she said. She leaned forward and rapped the driver on the shoulder.

'Why doesn't he go to the toilet?' she asked.

The driver threw back his head and laughed. Then he turned his face to answer her. The car negotiated two bends by remote control.

'Pas de toilette, madame,' he said.

'What's that?' she asked.

'It seems the road is the toilet,' explained Higgins.

She sniffed.

'I say,' said Higgins, 'look, the sea.'

To their right as they ran for a short while along a bluff, the Indian Ocean stretched away to the horizon, a limpid azure blue in the morning sun. Half a mile from the shore was a white line of breaking surf marking the great reef that encloses Mauritius from the wilder waters. Inside the reef they could see the lagoon, still water of palest green and so clear the coral clusters were easily visible 20 feet down. Then the taxi plunged back into the cane fields.

After fifty minutes they passed through the fishing village of Trou d'Eau Douce. The driver pointed ahead.

'Hotel,' he said, 'dix minutes.'

'Thank goodness,' huffed Mrs Murgatroyd. 'I couldn't have taken much more of this rattletrap.'

They turned into the driveway between manicured lawns set with palm trees. Higgins turned with a grin.

'A long way from Ponder's End,' he said.

Murgatroyd smiled back. 'Indeed it is,' he said. Not that he had no reason to be grateful to the commuter suburb of Ponder's End, London, where he was branch manager. A light-industry factory had opened nearby six months previously and on a stroke of inspiration he had approached both management and workforce with the suggestion that they minimize the risk of a payroll robbery by paying their weekly wages like the executive salaries — by cheque. Somewhat to his surprise they had mostly agreed and several hundred new accounts had been opened at his branch. It was this coup which had come to the attention of head office and someone there had proposed the idea of an incentive scheme for provincial and junior staff. In the scheme's inaugural year he had won it, and the prize was a week in Mauritius entirely paid for by the bank.

The taxi finally halted in front of the great arched entrance o

f the H6tel St Geran, and two porters ran forward to take the luggage from the boot and the roof rack. Mrs Murgatroyd descended from the rear seat at once. Although she had only twice ventured east of the Thames estuary — they usually holidayed with her sister at Bognor — she at once began to harangue the porters as if, in earlier life, she had had half the Raj at her personal disposition.

Followed by the porters and the luggage the three of them trailed through the arched doorway into the airy cool of the vaulted main hall, Mrs Murgatroyd in the lead in her floral print dress, much crumpled by the flight and the drive, Higgins in his natty tropical cream seersucker, and Murgatroyd in his sober grey. To the left lay the reception desk, manned by an Indian clerk who smiled a welcome.

Higgins took charge. 'Mr and Mrs Murgatroyd,' he said, 'and I am Mr Higgins.'

The clerk consulted his reservations list. 'Yes, indeed,' he said.

Murgatroyd stared about him. The main hall was made of rough-hewn local stone and was very lofty. High above him dark timber beams supported the roof. The hall stretched away towards colonnades at the far end, and other pillars supported the sides so that a cooling breeze wafted through. From the far end he saw the glare of tropical sunlight and heard the splash and shouts of a swimming pool in full use. Halfway down the hall, to the left, a stone staircase led upwards to what must be the upper floor of the bedroom wing. At ground level another arch led to the lower suites.

From a room behind reception a blond young Englishman emerged in a crisp shirt and pastel slacks.

'Good morning,' he said with a smile. 'I'm Paul Jones, the general manager.'

'Higgins,' said Higgins. 'This is Mr and Mrs Murgatroyd.'

'You're very welcome,' said Jones. 'Now, let me see about the rooms.'

From down the hall a lanky figure strolled towards them. His lean shanks emerged from drill shorts and a flower-patterned beach shirt flapped about him. He wore no shoes but he had a beatific smile and clutched a can of lager in one large hand. He stopped several yards short of Murgatroyd and stared down at him.

'Hullo, new arrivals?' he said in a discernible Australian accent.

Murgatroyd was startled. 'Er, yes,' he said.

'What's your name?' asked the Australian without ceremony.

'Murgatroyd,' said the bank manager. 'Roger Murgatroyd.'