Chapter 8
It was generally agreed that the Governor’s luncheon party for Mr. Talefwa was no more than a modified success; throughout the whole ninety minutes of it, Sir Gardnor glowed rather than actually shone.
Not that it was Sir Gardnor’s fault; or anybody else’s for that matter. It was purely meteorological. After the almost incandescent heat of the past month, the rains were now approaching.
In consequence, the whole climate of Amimbo was in decline. Hour by hour, it deteriorated. With the thermometer remaining in the upper nineties, the humidity slowly crept up until it was now running level. Everything became saturated, sodden. Metal objects like brass doorhandles and nickel-plated taps were perpetually misted over, bearing upon themselves an invisible, residual film. Prickly heat became endemic, and everyone White by birth began scratching.
As for the Mimbo, they went their own dark, secret ways, more subdued, more morose and more enigmatic than usual. Even on large public projects, the local labour force dwindled away to practically nothing; and crimes of inexplicable violence abruptly rocketed upwards.
Meanwhile, the whole landscape of the Colony had undergone a profound change. In the meaningless, blue African sky, clouds appeared from nowhere; and, even between the clouds, the blue faded. It was no longer purely savage. And already, in the distance, the big stuff had began massing. Over the Alouma Hills, huge mountain ranges of steel-coloured cumulus were now piling up; and, at sunset, everything turned crimson.
In the reflected light, the Government buildings, St. Stephen’s Cathedral, the avenues of trees, the flower-beds, the lawns all changed colour, too. Amimbo had become a different Amimbo.
By one o’clock on the day of the luncheon, Sir Gardnor had changed his jacket three times.
It was the Bishop, in particular, who had provoked him, and made him hotter than he need have been. First, his Grace had refused in any circumstances to meet the offensive Mr. Talefwa; then, on second thoughts, he had decided that, if re-invited, he would accept; and now, at the last moment, he had asked if he could sit next to the man. Sir Gardnor told the A.D.C. to re-arrange the table.
The party itself was a small one. In addition to Mr. Talefwa, there was Mr. Ngono from the African side. It had occurred to Sir Gardnor that this would be an opportunity of having Mr. Ngono to the Residency, without actually having to talk to him. Accordingly, he had been placed at the far end, with only the A.D.C. and Native Affairs for company.
Next to Mr. Talefwa was the Bishop. Opposite Mr. Talefwa was Mr. Frith. And next to Mr. Frith was Harold. In the result, it worked out exactly wrong; the Africans were outnumbered by two-and-a-half to one, and the general effect was lop-sided.
In his enthusiasm, it was Mr. Ngono who arrived first. He was a good five minutes early. There was only the A.D.C. to receive him. But between two people of such good manners no problem presented itself.
‘How d’you do? I’m afraid His Excellency is detained for a moment.’
‘No, no. The fault is entirely all mine.’
‘What’ll you have?’ The A.D.C. asked. He indicated the dumbwaiter beside him. ‘Gin, whisky, sherry?’
‘Oh, you are more than kind. Gin, please,’
‘And tonic?’
‘You are most kind, indeed.’
‘Ice?’
‘With ice it is even better. Damn good, in fact.’
Mr. Ngono smiled inwardly as well as outwardly. Swearing always made him feel better. It served when talking to a white man to remind him that, despite the distance of Continents and oceans, Cambridge was still close at hand, and all Cambridge men were bloody well equal.
‘Cigarette?’
‘My own please. Turkish you understand. They are personally imported for my convenience. You will please try one. Most mild. Most exceptionally mild.’
The A.D.C. excused himself.
‘Don’t use them,’ he said. ‘Light?’
The next to join them was the Bishop. All the way in the car he had been reproving himself for his earlier lack of charity towards Mr. Talefwa, and he was determined to do everything in his power to make amends. In consequence, he did not even listen to the introduction and immediately began congratulating Mr. Ngono on his outspokenness, his sense of justice and his feeling for the underdog.
It was only the emergence through the inner door of the Governor, followed a moment later by the arrival of Mr. Talefwa himself, that saved Mr. Ngono from having the humiliation of having to explain. As it was, he had merely stood there, glass in hand, smiling politely and waiting for the Bishop to go on.
The Governor immediately made Mr. Talefwa his own especial target. He advanced upon him, smile extended.
‘How good of you to come,’ he said. ‘I know how busy your paper must be keeping you. What will you drink? Gin, whisky …’
Mr. Talefwa shook his head.
‘Thank you, sir, no,’ he said. ‘I do not drink alcohol. I am a Moslem.’ The reply appeared to please Sir Gardnor.
‘I wish we were all as strict,’ he said; and, to avoid giving the wrong impression, added: ‘I myself drink nothing during Lent.’
The Bishop caught Sir Gardnor’s eye and nodded understandingly. But Mr. Talefwa was still pondering.
‘Christian self-strictness is the greater, sir, I assure you,’ he replied at last. ‘Abstinence during your Fasts must be much harder, once there is addiction.’
Sir Gardnor looked across at his A.D.C.
‘Are we all ready?’ he asked. ‘Shall we be seated?’
Over luncheon it was the Bishop who set himself out to charm. He mentioned the fact that among his closest friends was one who had in the past been a leader-writer on the Daily Telegraph; he recalled a recent, laughable misprint in the Church Times; and he confessed that, for him, breakfast was intolerable unless he had a newspaper that he could prop up against the marmalade-jar.
Mr. Talefwa appeared both impressed and surprised.
‘Then you must be much interested in journalism’, he said, with a little bow of his head. He turned towards Sir Gardnor, ‘And you, sir, do you see my paper regularly?’ he asked.
Sir Gardnor resented the question: it was altogether too early in the meal for it. And, in any case, he had himself intended, over coffee, to bring the conversation round to the newspapers in general, and the Amimbo Mirror in particular. Now—thanks to the Bishop and all his silly press talk—the initiative had been snatched from him.
‘Not regularly, I am afraid, Mr. Talefwa,’ he replied, with one of his warmer smiles. ‘Not regularly. But I understand that you are now printing articles in English. Do your readers appreciate the change?’
Mr. Talefwa shook his head.
‘Most of them cannot read English,’ he said. ‘Only a proportion can understand. But it is not for them that the articles appear.’
Sir Gardnor frowned.
‘Not for your readers?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Mr. Talefwa told him. ‘They are intended for those who cannot read Mimbo. They are addressed, at second-hand of course, to our rulers so that they may know what are the matters that are most troubling the Mimbo mind.’
‘Really,’ said Sir Gardnor. ‘How interesting. How very interesting.’
‘Then you have not studied what they say?’
Sir Gardnor looked across the table at Native Affairs.
‘You read Mr. Talefwa’s paper, don’t you, Mr. Walters?’ he asked. ‘The section in English, I mean.’
Mr. Walters coughed discreetly.
‘I read the Mimbo parts, Excellency,’ he replied.
Sir Gardnor turned back to Mr. Talefwa. He was beaming again.
‘There you are, Mr. Editor,’ he said. ‘You have a regular reader here at this table. And you don’t even have to translate for him.’
Mr. Talefwa gave a deep sigh.
‘But the topics are entirely different,’ he explained. ‘My Mimbo readers are backward, uneducated and superstitious. For them it is necessary to write o
f very simple and trivial affairs. The English articles are highly political. They deal with matters of national consequence and controversy. In journalistic terms, they are dynamite.’
‘Indeed?’ Sir Gardnor had leant forward, as though anxious not to miss a word. ‘Pray tell me more.’
But Mr. Talefwa was, for the moment, exhausted. He had been ready for an attack on him; a polite reprimand; a sly hint of possible closure; even an official warning from the Governor himself. Like the Bishop, he had wondered whether it was wise to accept at all. And now everyone was being nice to him; being nice, without caring about .him in the slightest. It reminded him heartbreakingly of the attitude of his widow landlady in Belsize Park.
‘Then you have not considered my solemn warning on famine?’ Mr. Talefwa blurted out. ‘It is the writing on the wall, sir. It is nothing less.’
Sir Gardnor addressed Mr. Frith.
‘A famine warning?’ he asked. ‘Has this been brought to your notice? It sounds most important. I should like to see it sometime. We certainly need all the advance information we can have, don’t we, Mr. Talefwa?’
‘The facts are all there,’ Mr. Talefwa answered. ‘The terrible facts.’
Mr. Frith was about to answer, but Sir Gardnor stopped him.
‘You were about to say something, Mr. Stebbs?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact, sir,’ Harold replied, ‘I was wondering where Mr. Talefwa got his facts. They’ve gone a bit haywire somehow. Too bad in places, and too good in others. They need to be presented differently.’
‘Ah,’ it was Sir Gardnor who had uttered. And he paused. ‘There, Mr. Talefwa,’ he said, opening the palms of his hands as he was speaking, ‘you see. Even at luncheon we still keep you busy. Fresh information all the time. You and Mr. Stebbs should see more of each other. I’m sure Mr. Stebbs would like to check any figures you care to send him. You would, wouldn’t you, Mr. Stebbs?’
Sir Gardnor had glanced at his watch while he was speaking, and Mr. Ngono recognised that, in a moment, he would be too late. Stuck down at the far end of the table, he had been left out of things: had failed entirely to make his personality felt. Everyone would think that Mr. Talefwa was all-important and that he, Mr. Ngono, was nothing.
He tapped with his coffee spoon on the side of the cup.
‘Before we break ourselves up, Excellency, sir,’ he said, ‘may I on Mr. Talefwa’s behalf and on my own extend our sincerely happy thanks for this most glad occasion. It has all been extremely delightful, not for today’s excellent repast alone, but for the opportunities it gives of other intimate follow-ups in the near future. Thank you altogether warmheartedly again, sir.’
Mr. Ngono gave a deep sigh of contentment. He had got it out. He had triumphed. He had shown where, on his side of Amimbo, the social graces really lay.
Chapter 9
Towards evening, the lighting which had been playing over the Alouma Hills all day had become incessant.
The peaks and the under-surface of the huge clouds were continuously illuminated. And, in the flickering blue-white dazzle, jagged diamond-coloured shafts, branching out at times into the pattern of inverted ferns, tore downwards, making the surrounding brightness look like night.
Within Amimbo itself, odd bye-products of the seasonal discharge had already begun to manifest themselves. Sub-power stations and transformers suddenly went down. Telephones stopped. The weather-vane on St. Stephen’s Cathedral flickered fitfully for a few seconds with St. Elmo’s Fire. And the Radio Station closed its service, crackles and all, until the storm was over.
Because it was Tuesday, Harold was staffless. It was Amimbo’s big evening, Tuesday. The Y.M.C.A. showed—free for allcomers—films, in colour, of the Lake District, Shakespeare’s England and the Yarmouth herring fleet; the R.C.s had their instruction classes; the Non-Coms were teaching First Aid and the Bible; and one of Mr. Ngono’s business enterprises was devoting itself to a Western Style Dance Contest, with all pleasures.
Tuesday was Harold’s night for the Milner Club. But tonight it was not the same Milner Club. On one side, Mr. Frith was midway through his nightly run of whiskies; two bridge fours had been arranged; and the congenial Chairman of a coffee syndicate was heavily impressing an exhausted-looking stranger.
But on the other, the serving side, things were different. The three boys, spruce and immaculate as ever, were not merely staring vacantly into space; they were waiting for something. Waiting, and listening. Every time the remote barrage of thunder intensified, they nodded secretly to themselves and exchanged glances, the whites of their eyes glinting. They had ceased altogether to be Club servants. They had reverted to pure Mimbo. They were praying.
‘Think it’ll rain tonight, boy?’ Harold asked.
The barman detached himself from another, more private world and jerked himself back into business.
‘Your usual, yassah. Your usual.’
‘I’m all right,’ Harold pointed to his glass as he said it. ‘I asked if it was going to rain.’
The barman did not reply immediately. And with good reason. Last year, after all the right signs, nothing at all had happened. Not a single drop. The crops had perished, and womenfolk and young children had died. The barman did not doubt that foolish, ill-considered talk had been responsible. It was playing with providence even to refer to the rains at all.
He deftly turned the conversation into less dangerous channels.
‘Yassah,’ he said. ‘Tonight, sah, on the menu there is roast lamb, sah, or mudfish. With compote of fresh fruits and ice-cream.’ He was taking no chances, and went on hurriedly. ‘The roast lamb is with potatoes and mint-sauce, sah, or red-currant jelly. And the mudfish, sah, has a thick white sauce. The ice-cream is vanilla with nuts on top.’
In the headlights of the car, the bungalow looked lonely, deserted and inhospitable.
‘I’ll have one more drink,’ he told himself. ‘One more drink, and then turn in. If the storm breaks, I’ll probably sleep through it.’
As he slid out of the passenger seat, an African raindrop the size of a small grape, hit him on his forehead and burst there. An instant later, the sodden, uneasy sky had released itself, and the rains, the unpredictable, the long-awaited, the much prayed-for rains, had come at last. Big, swollen drops hit bare scaly leaves, and buried themselves in the loose soil below. The drops came down joined on to one another; the rain was now hosepipe and bath-water stuff. At his feet, patches of open ground became ponds, lakes, rivers.
He ran towards the bungalow, shielding his face with his hands. The weight of the water was pressing down onto his shoulders. When he opened the front door, a screen of brown spray bounced up from the step into the empty hallway.
The electric-light switch on the wall simply clicked up and down; somewhere on its way from the sub-station the supply had been cut off.
He started to strip off his jacket, his tie, his shirt. The rain, hammering on the iron roof, made a noise like trains passing. Inside, it was all very close, and stifling and familiar. He was conscious of the hot, inhabited smell of the bungalow; the characteristic odours of the woodwork, the flowers on the table, the bowl of fruit that the boy had forgotten to put away in the ice-box, even the cigarettes left open on the bookcase.
‘I thought you were never coming.’
He turned, and she was standing there in the doorway. All that he could see was the pale oval of her face, the whiteness of her dress.
‘Anne,’ he said.
It was the first time that he had ever called her by her name.
He let go of the sodden shirt that he was holding, and went over to her. She was already holding out her hands towards him.
‘You can kiss me if you want to,’ she told him.
He could feel that she was trembling. But, a moment later, she had pushed him away again.
‘Silly boy,’ she said. ‘You don’t even know how to kiss. And look at the mess you’ve made of me. I’m soaking.’
Harold sto
od there facing her. He was surprised how fast his breathing had become, how he was trembling, too. And, inside his mind, one thought was forming. ‘I must play this cool,’ he kept telling himself. ‘I must act experienced. That’s it—cool and experienced.’
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.
‘I got myself one,’ she replied. ‘But it’s finished.’
‘Then it’s time for another.’
He groped his way through into the dining-room and poured out two whiskies. He must have drunk a little more up at the Club than he had realised, because he was clumsy. The soda came shooting up out of the glass into his face. And on his way back he bumped into the furniture.
‘Coming,’ he said, and added pointlessly: ‘I can’t see a thing.’
‘I’m over here,’ she told him.
He tried to kiss her again as he handed the drink to her, but she avoided him.
‘Were you surprised to find me here?’
He kept his voice deliberately low and casual-sounding.
‘Not really.’
‘Pleased?’
‘Very.’
‘And you don’t know why I came?’
‘I think I do.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ she said. ‘Utterly, completely wrong.’
She paused.
‘Have you got a cigarette?’ she asked.
He managed to light it for her, without revealing how unsteady his hand was.
‘Quite wrong,’ she repeated.
‘I don’t care so long as you’re here,’ he told her.
‘And you can’t expect me to go back out into that. Not at once, I mean. Now can you?’
Her face was towards the shuttered window as she was speaking.
‘Won’t they begin looking for you?’
She turned sharply.
‘Are you afraid?’
‘I only wondered. About Sybil Prosser, for instance.’
‘You don’t have to bother about Sybil.’ He could tell that she was smiling as she said it. ‘Sybil’s asleep. And H.E.’s away up country some-where. Nobody knows I’m over here. Not officially, that is. I just got bored with everything. So I walked across.’
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