The Governor's Lady

by Norman Collins

  But still he persevered. An enormously strong young man, he hammered. And, when he pulled things, bits of the typewriter came clean away in his hands. One of the corrugated knobs on the platen had been missing for weeks; and the other, which had only come off yesterday was now resting on top of his inkwell.

  Touch-typing was the method in which the Commercial College specialised. Even now to glance down at the keyboard for a single moment to satisfy himself that it was still intact would have seemed tantamount to cheating. In the result, breathing heavily and with his eyes hypnotically fixed on his copy, he diligently hit one wrong key after another, bearing down on it each time like a nawy, and pausing only to wrench the little type-heads apart when two of them happened to come up together and get jammed. The flimsy trestle-table at which he worked, rocked and sagged and shuddered, and the floor around him looked as though it had been showered in pygmy confetti as the centres of the ‘o’s’ and the insides of the loops on the ‘b’s’ and ‘d’s’ and ‘p’s’ were cut clean out of the paper by the hammer-blows.

  Not that it really mattered. With so many urgent affairs of State on the Governor’s mind, even the book itself seemed temporarily to have been forgotten. And, with the last section of the Trade Tables finally handed over to the typist, Harold found himself suddenly with nothing to do.

  There he was, nearly five thousand miles from home; scratching himself at intervals because the heat had already brought up a rash on both his forearms; slightly queasy inside from the blown-up, over-ripe dessert that the houseboy had just served him at dinner; and dispirited.

  From his chair on the verandah, with the pot of pale, ineffectual coffee on the table beside him, he could see the lights of the Residency through the distant bank of bombax and uroko trees.

  It was less than half-a-mile away, but somehow the distance seemed immeasurable. The lights might have been illuminations on another planet. They made him feel more isolated still. And, with his legs stuck out onto the stool in front and his chin resting on his chest, he found himself thinking about Lady Anne.

  He remembered those full, shining eyes set in the pale face with its frame of dark hair. He remembered the amused, almost pitying kind of smile. And he wondered if she had remembered that invitation that she was going to send him to come across to the Residency some time when they were both feeling bored.

  He gave a little shudder, and shook himself. Even the bar at the Royal Albert would be better than the empty bungalow. It would give him something to do; even possibly someone to talk to.

  It was not until nearly ten o’clock when Harold finally reached the Royal Albert. That was because the taxi had broken down. An ancient landaulette of immense size, it had proved to have something gravely— even mortally, Harold suspected—wrong with the engine. The driver, surrounded by a small circle of his more knowledgeable friends had remained in the hotel courtyard, standing beside the open bonnet assuring everyone that it was the matter of a moment, a mere twist with a spanner, or a screw-driver or something, to eliminate those deafening back-firings.

  The bar itself was empty when Harold entered. He had just ordered himself a lager that the boy had assured him was cold, very well cold, sir, like iced, when he saw someone approaching. He was a young man; a remarkably fashionable young man. Beneath the glistening black face, the pale blue shirt and the marigold-coloured tie caught the eye like a challenge. He was wearing a red buttonhole and his new plaited shoes were strikingly criss-crossed in strands of contrasting leathers.

  He walked up to the bar with an easy, contemptuous swagger.

  ‘Good evening, Charles,’ he said, as he perched himself on one of the high stools. ‘My usual.’

  The barman smiled back at him.

  ‘Yassaar,’ he said. ‘Your usual. What you want to drink, sah?’

  It was a gin-fizz that the young man ordered. He was very knowledgeable about it, and insisted that the boy should make it with Booth’s and Rose’s. He was still discussing the merits of other gins, other fruit juices, when he suddenly became aware of Harold. He looked again. And, having looked a second time, he gaped. His glass held halfway to his lips, he was transfixed.

  Then impulsively pushing his drink away from him, he slid off the high stool and came over.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said with a little bow as though he were a shopwalker. ‘Do I disturb private thoughts, or may I be so bold as to enquire if that is an Emma tie you are wearing? You follow me, sir? Emma— Emmanuel College of Cambridge University, England?’

  Harold shifted round to face him. The young man was bent forward, arching his shoulders as he did so. His politeness was overwhelming.

  ‘Yes, it’s an Emmanuel tie,’ Harold told him.

  The young man was temporarily overcome. Then he shot out a powerful hand of welcome.

  ‘Permit me to introduce myself,’ he said. ‘The name is Ngo Ngono. You’ve heard of me? I was at Cambridge University, too. At Caius. Often I, also, wear my College tie. But tonight it is a flowered one, unfortunately. Permit me to give you my card. It has my name on it.’

  While he was speaking, he had produced an expensive-looking morocco wallet, and was carefully drawing out a card from between its two little leaves of tissue paper.

  ‘As you will well know, sir,’ he explained, ‘it is not usual to mention the name of the college. Only the University. And the degree, of course. Is this your first visit? Are you happy? Do you have any wishes? Allow me to offer you a drink, sir. A token for old good times beside the Cam. Tell me your pleasure.’

  ‘I’m drinking lager,’ Harold told him.

  But Mr. Ngono would not hear of it.

  ‘It must be champagne,’ he said. ‘Champagne for a celebration. Often when alone I drink champagne. It is quite my usual. I prefer it.’

  He clapped his hands as he said so and called to the boy at the far end of the bar.

  ‘A bottle of champagne in a bucket with ice and two glasses. Champagne glasses of course, all double quick.’ Then turning to Harold, he added. ‘This is such great pleasure for myself bumping into you like this. Think of the talks that we shall have. There is so little conversation in Amimbo. Not deep, intellectual conversation I mean. Not about mutual friends.’

  Over the champagne, Mr. Ngono became not merely convivial, but inquisitive.

  ‘And your important employment?’ he asked. ‘You are connected with the Government? You will be our new Resident Officer? Is it Omtala you are destined for? You have heard about the regrettable vacancy, of course. They will be most pleased to see you.’

  ‘I’m a statistician,’ Harold replied. ‘They won’t be wanting me up there.’

  Mr. Ngono waved the point aside.

  ‘Permit me, sir, to disagree. Emphatically, bloody-well disagree. Statisticians are needed everywhere. This is a very backward country in some respects. Omtala has not even one statistician. Not damn one. You know why I am here?’

  Harold shook his head.

  ‘Then I will tell you. In great confidence, of course. I have come to found a publishing house. To counteract the backwardness. A publishing house like Macmillan’s. There is widespread illiteracy among my people. Among the women especially, it is deplorable. The books will be in the native dialects, with the corresponding pictures in colour facing opposite. And all in foreign translations, at a later stage. It will be a very large publishing house. I myself as founder shall be its managing director.’

  ‘Should be interesting,’ Harold told him.

  ‘Most interesting, indeed,’ Mr. Ngono continued. ‘Of course, I shall require Government backing. I shall demand it—very discreetly, but most firmly. It will not succeed unless books are made compulsory. I shall ask the Governor to declare illiteracy illegal. Ban it right out with heavy fines.’

  He paused, breathless for a moment, and then resumed.

  ‘Have you met our Governor?’ he asked. ‘Maybe I could help you with an introduction? Purely out of friendship, I mean. Because of our Cam
bridge bond. I am very close to the Governor. Often, I advise him. I am starting also a new technical school. The Governor will be our first Patron. I shall ask him. That is yet another reason why I am here.’

  The bottle of champagne was almost finished by now, and already Mr. Ngono was a little drunk.

  ‘Our Governor is much like a good king,’ he was saying. ‘He is all-powerful and also extremely nice. Most philosophic and intelligent, and of great patience. If he should leave us, I verily believe the crops would fail. By Jove, I do really. It will be a great regret for me always that I could not have been the first to introduce you to such a man.’

  Mr. Ngono was leaning forward by now. His face was up close to Harold’s.

  ‘But there is one other,’ he said. ‘It is Her Excellency, the Governor’s wife you understand. She is not a personal friend, I am most sad to say. I have shaken hands, yes; but spoken, unfortunately never. She is the most extremely beautiful person I have ever seen. Like a photograph. A goddess. A veritable goddess. Everyone who has cast eyes on her agrees that.’

  Mr. Ngono poured out the last of the champagne.

  ‘But’—here he drew the corners of his mouth down and dropped his voice to the merest audible whisper— ‘also a most naughty goddess, so I have heard tell. A most extremely naughty one.’

  He was leaning so far forward on his stool to impart this confidence that he accidentally slipped. He had to put both hands on Harold’s shoulders to save himself.

  ‘But I should not have spoken,’ he said. ‘If she should become your friend, I am ruined. Also my publishing house. Please altogether to forget my last remark. It is no more than idle hear-say, I don’t damn well doubt. Not a single word of so-called truth from start to finish.’

  Chapter 5

  It was there ready waiting for him on the tray when he got back from seeing Mr. Frith. One of the boys from the Residency must have delivered it.

  The envelope had a Crown on the back, and inside was the crisply printed invitation card. It stated, formally enough, that Her Excellency, Lady Anne Hackforth, would be at home at 4.30 p.m. next Wednesday. His own name had been written at the top in a precise, impersonal kind of script. But in the bottom right-hand corner there were two words scribbled in a contrastingly bright ink. ‘Do come were what they said.

  ‘So she’s remembered about me, has she?’ Harold asked himself. ‘I suppose that means that she’s feeling bored again. Or perhaps she thinks that I am.’

  He was, as it happened, not in the least bored. Sir Gardnor had found time to send him a line of thanks for the new presentation of the Trade Tables. And other people, too, in Arnimbo had just caught up with the fact that he was out there with them. At breakfast that morning there had been a letter from Establishment, confirming his appointment and thoughtfully enclosing an Overseas Allowances form; a roneo-ed sheet from the Milner Sports Club, requesting the sum of three guineas; and a black-rimmed card with deckle-edges inviting him to the memorial service in the Anglican Cathedral for poor Major Henderson.

  There was also someone else who had remembered Harold: Mr. Ngono. His letter put on record how extremely much the writer had enjoyed meeting him the other evening, and proposed full dinner next time, with or without dancing just as Harold preferred. Mr. Ngono’s own car could be available to call for Mm the earlier the so much better; and would Harold’s official position, Mr. Ngono wondered, permit him to take a prominent seat on the board of a little syndicate that Mr. Ngono was about to form for the import of American fertilisers. He was ready, Mr. Ngono stressed, to come along to the bungalow at any time for a few drinks and a most friendly chat if Harold would rather have things that way.

  Harold took great pains to make himself presentable for Her Excellency’s tea-party.

  If he was going to meet the cream of Amimbo society he wanted to be looking at his very best. And the visit to the barber at the Royal Albert had not been entirely successful. The man had cropped, rather than merely cut; and, studying the result in the mirror, Harold decided that it made him look rather younger: it was an effect which he disliked intensely. On the other hand, he had already learnt the great secret of dressing in the tropics. It was simply to leave it all as late as possible, not putting on the jacket until actually leaving the front door, so that the sweat marks between the shoulders would have less time to work through.

  The only thing that was still worrying him was the emerald-green hair-oil that the hotel barber had sold to him. The colour vanished magically as soon as it reached the scalp, but the smell remained. And it was a peculiarly powerful and pungent kind of smell. As he crossed the Residency threshold, he was still conscious of it.

  This time, there was no A.D.C. waiting for him at the top of the stairs. The black servant with white jacket and the gold sash led him along the corridor towards the west wing. And, even when they reached it and turned sharply right by the last of the royal portraits, there was still that same endless expanse of blue carpet stretching ahead of them.

  As he reached the doorway at the far end, Harold glanced down at his watch.

  ‘Oh, damn,’ he reflected. ‘I’m punctual. I’ve bloody well done it again. I’m the first.’

  The room into which he was shown was strikingly different from the Governor’s library on the other side. For a start, it was feminine: all white and chintzy. There were a lot of photographs in silver frames, and the flowers looked as though they belonged there, rather than having simply been arranged. It was like any room in a pleasant, country house in Sussex.

  Already there was someone coming forward across the large white rug to meet him. It was a thin, straw-coloured woman, and she was thrusting out a thin, straw-coloured hand.

  ‘Oh, Mr. Stebbs,’ she said. ‘Her Excellency will be so glad that you were able to come.’

  She paused for a moment, and then added in the same flat, rather high-pitched voice: ‘I’m Sybil Prosser.’

  ‘How d’you do?’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’m early.’

  ‘Not a bit,’ Miss Prosser assured him, looking across at the Empire clock on the mantlepiece. ‘You’re not. Really you’re not. You’re exactly on time. To the very minute.’

  She broke off long enough to gather up some petals that had fallen onto the table from the flower vase beside her, and turned towards him.

  ‘Do sit down, won’t you, Mr. Stebbs? Lady Anne ought to be here by now. She’s only resting.’

  It occurred to Harold as he sat himself in one of the small, cushiony chairs that he had never seen anyone quite so ill at ease as Miss Prosser. Even her new-looking, white dress did not fit properly. There was something wrong with the collar and, while she was talking, she kept tugging at it in an irritable, absent-minded kind of fashion. She had chosen the corner of the couch for herself, and she did not fit there, either. With no natural, built-in comforts, she could find nowhere to place her left arm. In the end, she left it hanging helplessly by her side and tried crossing her legs the other way. The gesture drew attention to her rather strangely oversize feet in their pointed white suede shoes.

  ‘Smoke if you want to,’ she told him. They’re beside you. I don’t myself. I used to. But not any longer.’

  He had not yet lit the cigarette when Sybil Prosser spoke again.

  ‘May I ask a favour?’ she enquired. ‘A personal one, I mean.’

  It was the voice that did it. On her lips, it did not sound like asking for a favour at all: there was the distinct note of a threat underlying it. He finished lighting his cigarette.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  She leant forward, the collar of her dress rising still further from her long neck as she did so.

  ‘Don’t stay too long,’ she said. ‘Please just have tea, and then go away again. You don’t understand, but it’s my responsibility. Lady Anne isn’t well, you see. She’s been under great strain lately. That’s why I took her away. Why I went with her, I mean. I wanted her to be away longer. But she insisted on coming back again.
She’ll be very glad to see you. I know she will. If only you don’t stay…’

  Harold put down his cigarette.

  ‘Would you rather I left now?’

  It was not Miss Prosser who answered him. It was Lady Anne. She was standing in the far doorway. Her hands folded and her head inclined to one side, she was smiling. There was something in her attitude that made Harold wonder whether she had been there all the time, whether she had overheard the whole conversation.

  ‘Has Sybil been trying to get rid of you already?’ she asked. ‘Whatever have you done to deserve it?’

  She came forward, still smiling and walking rather slowly as though she were enjoying the situation and did not want to see it pass.

  ‘She should have been apologising, you know,’ she went on. ‘For dragging you up here, I mean. Because this isn’t a real do. There’s no one else. It’s only the three of us. Do you mind?’

  The smell of the emerald hair-oil had just reached him again: he wondered if the others were aware of it, too.

  ‘Not a bit,’ he replied. ‘It’s nicer this way, isn’t it? Not so many people, I mean.’

  Lady Anne stopped smiling.

  ‘Do you know why I sent you one of those invitations?’ she asked. ‘Because you’d have refused if I’d just written to you—you know you would. But you couldn’t very well if I sent you an official card. And so you’re here.’

  She was facing him by now, and Harold was conscious again of what remarkably fine eyes she had. It was as though they were actually lit up from within and were shining outwards.

  This was an entirely different woman from the one who had come over to the bungalow. She seemed somehow taller; tall, and composed and elegant. And beautiful. To his annoyance Harold found himself remembering Mr. Ngono’s words, ‘like a photograph. A goddess. A veritable goddess.’