The Governor's Lady

by Norman Collins

  That was why it was so absolutely maddening for Mr. Frith to find that his idiotic secretary had made an appointment for him to see—of all people—Mr. Ngono. And, by the time Mr. Frith had discovered the blunder, it was too late. Already he could hear Mr. Ngono outside explaining to one of the native clerks the reason for his sudden and unwelcome visit.

  ‘It is most extremely urgent otherwise I would have been altogether unwilling to disturb anyone so decidedly busy. It is also most extremely delicate and confidential. Entirely private, in fact. Also, most timely. When the nature of my call is known everyone will be exceedingly grateful and happy.’

  Mr. Ngono had left nothing to chance, and was dressed specially for the occasion. His new silk shirt had his initials embroidered on the vest pocket, and over his arm he was carrying his blazer, carefully folded so that the badge was showing over his forearm.

  Because of Mr. Frith’s abruptness he came to the point at once.

  It is the attacks upon our Governor that bring me here,’ he said. ‘The quite disloyal attacks which Mr. Talefwa makes in his newspaper. He is a remarkably proud and obstinate man, Mr. Talefwa. But he is not by any means rich. Most pressed for money, indeed.’

  ‘And you want the Governor to bribe him?’

  Ngono showed his teeth in a white, glittering smile.

  ‘An altogether different idea entirely sir, and most engagingly attractive in every respect,’ Mr. Ngono assured him. ‘It is upon importing in the most modern sense that it depends. A Government Trading Corporation is highly sophisticated, extremely modern and right up to date to the very minute. Also highly profitable for all concerned. I would free myself completely to manage it—with a distinguished and highly influential Board, of course. It would all be most democratic’

  ‘And Mr. Talefwa?’

  Mr. Ngono bared his teeth again.

  ‘It is in his paper that we should solely, exclusively advertise. Full and attractive pages of advertisement every day. All at the utmost top rate. Most generously paid for.’ Here Mr. Ngono stopped smiling. ‘Provided, it goes necessarily without saying, that there are no more reprehensible attacks upon our Governor. The least hint of criticism, even a joke in poor taste, and all advertising stops like’—Mr. Ngono pursed his lips and blew rudely into the air. ‘You see how at once clear the present proposal all will be from the point of view and general aspect of Mr. Talefwa? It is happiness or ruin. Great financial happiness and power, or extremely sad ruin.’

  It was entirely Sir Gardnor’s idea to hold a farewell party; and all on the spur of the moment, too.

  The Governor had not so much as mentioned it to Mr. Frith when he had left the Residency at around 5.30. But the invitation was there waiting for him—telephoned through by the A.D.C.—when he returned home shortly before 7. And that was unfortunate. Because Mr. Frith had already dropped into the Milner Club for a moment on his way back. The moment had prolonged itself. Frayed at the edges as he was after the ceaseless abrasive meetings with the Governor, he had stayed on. All that he now wanted was to go to sleep.

  Harold’s own invitation had reached him in good time. He was, in fact, already bathed and changed. At any moment now, the houseboy, with the broad smile of a triumphant artist, would come in on his big bare feet to announce that another uneatable dinner at last was ready. And, in the meantime, Harold was standing over by the window, doing some quiet and serious thinking.

  ‘It can’t go on like tins,’ he was saying to himself. ‘It just bloody well can’t. It’s not fair on anyone. It’s not fair on Anne. It’s not fair on me. And it’s not fair on Sir Gardnor. I’m pulling out. That’s what I’m doing: I’m pulling out.’

  Through the mosquito-screen on the verandah, he could see the lights along the drive leading up to the Residency. The rain, during the late afternoon, had slackened. It was now no more than a dense, descending vapour. And, when he turned his head for a moment, the string of lights alternately blurred and blazed up again as he saw them through the myriad lenses of the drenched netting.

  ‘They knew what the form was,’ he went on. ‘And I walked right into it. Bloody well right in. But if they think I’m stopping on here, that’s where they’re wrong. He can get someone else to finish his damn book for him. I’ve had it. I’m pulling out.’

  The phrase ‘pulling out’ seemed somehow strangely comforting. It had a mature, definitive ring to it that Harold liked. And it served to place things in their true perspective. Put that way, there was no fluster, no panic, not even any very acute regrets. It was just a sensible adult decision.

  ‘I’ll go along tonight as invited,’ he concluded. ‘And I’ll take it all very quietly. At my own pace throughout. I’ll wish H.E. a pleasant trip, and tell him how much we are all looking forward to his safe return. I may even let fall the one word “India”: it’s all he really cares about. And, if Anne’s there, I’ll be on my best party manners. Nice to her. And nice to Sybil Prosser. Nice to everyone in fact. Back home by midnight. And, on Wednesday, I’ll take the Coronation Flyer. No farewells. No goodbye scenes. No tears. Nothing. Just my bags on the rack, and me with my feet up on the seat opposite. I’m not funking it: I’m just doing the right thing. Pulling out, before it’s all too late.’

  There were some twenty people already gathered under the chandeliers in the Long Drawing-room when Harold was shown into it. Some of them he had never seen before; not even in the Milner Club. He could only suppose that they were from Public Works, or the Railway, or somewhere really remote up country.

  And there were the wives. There were unfamiliar faces there, too, with a startled, just-out-of-purdah look about one or two of them. The A.D.C. was now going round from group to group explaining that it wasn’t in any sense a party—just a few intimates whom Sir Gardnor would naturally wish to see before he left.

  The arrival of Mr. Frith could not, even by his friends, have been regarded as other than unfortunate. During the waiting period between 7 and 9 p.m. he had avoided alcohol in any form. By 9.5 he was all ready, and quite desolate. And, solely to brace himself for the unwelcome and entirely unasked-for evening, he poured himself a drink. It was, even by his own standards, a large one. And he felt better for it. Much better. Well enough, in fact, to have another. When at last he got into his car, he was totally refreshed. He felt like Napoleon.

  As a result, he entered the drawing-room somewhat impetuously. While his name was still being called, he was already in there and had to queue up to shake hands behind someone from Education who was still chatting with the Governor.

  But Mr. Frith had his speech fully prepared, and delivered it immediately.

  ‘Bon voyage, Excellency,’ he said, ‘and safe séjour.’

  It was only after he had said it that he realised that it—or something like it—was what he had intended to say on departure, and not as soon as he arrived.

  He hurriedly corrected himself.

  ‘Don’t give us a thought after you leave us, sir,’ he added reassuringly. ‘We shall get on all right until after you get back.’

  A little flushed, but relieved that he had so quickly been able to correct his mistake, the Acting Chief Secretary moved on to mingle with the other guests.

  Sir Gardnor turned to greet Harold; and he seemed genuinely pleased to see him. He was at his most affable ; indulgent, even.

  ‘Not working late tonight, Mr. Stebbs?’ he asked. ‘That’s not like you, is it?’

  He paused; and, during the pause, Harold watched the famous Residency smile develop. It started, Harold noticed, with the corners of the mouth. But somehow they seemed to be drawn down, not upwards.

  ‘And it won’t always be raining, I assure you,’ Sir Gardnor went on. ‘Next month the roads will be quite passable again. Slippery, but still passable. Then’—the smile itself was steadily widening, even though the pale eyes remained as cold and fixed as ever—’we must show you something of the country, mustn’t we? The bush, I mean. On safari. Something of the real Africa.’


  The radiance of his smile had, Harold reckoned, passed progressively through the range from Simmer to Slow Roast. By now he could feel himself being scorched by it. But Sir Gardnor was not yet finished.

  ‘It can be very dull in Amimbo, can’t it?’ he asked. ‘Damnably dull. Especially for a young man. Let’s be frank about it: so few women— of the right kind, that is. And’—here Sir Gardnor gave his rather shrill little laugh—’none of the other sort at all. It’s the only real famine that lasts for twelve months every year.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been so busy I haven’t really noticed, sir.’

  He was aware that Sir Gardnor’s eyes were still on him. But he was not looking into them. He was thinking of the Coronation Flyer instead.

  ‘D’you shoot?’ Sir Gardnor asked.

  ‘I’ve used a rifle, sir.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Sir Gardnor replied. ‘Excellent. You must join our party. Are you interested in big game?’

  Harold remembered the heads of rhino and buffalo in the Governor’s study; remembered particularly the great ivory-tusker with the enormous butterfly ears at the top of the staircase.

  ‘Such as, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Leopard,’ Sir Gardnor told him. ‘Leopard.’

  He had rocked back on his heels as he was speaking, and thrown his chest out.

  ‘Mankind’s natural enemy,’ he went on. ‘Slinking, treacherous, deceitful—and cruel. Cruel beyond everything else in Africa. And dangerous. Highly dangerous. To destroy a leopard you have to become like him. You have to match your instincts and intelligence against his.’

  Sir Gardnor drew himself up to his full height, and Harold was aware that he reached up only to the black tie.

  ‘You see the importance of it, don’t you, my dear fellow?’ he asked. ‘Every leopard that is killed makes the Leopard Men that much less feared. It’s their god, and we’ve destroyed it. Publicly—that’s the point. That’s why I always have the pelt mounted. I like as many people as possible to walk over it.’

  Sir Gardnor bent forward, and Harold was level with his chin again.

  ‘But I mustn’t detain you,’ he said. I’m sure you have a great many friends.’

  Harold felt rather relieved. Behind him a long queue of other guests had been forming while Sir Gardnor had been talking.

  He was relieved, too, that there was still no sign of Lady Anne or Miss Prosser. It was going to be easier, much easier, if he could simply make the rounds and then slip quietly away again. He was even wondering whether anyone would notice if he left now. He felt that it might be safer.

  Mr. Frith, however, was already coming over towards him. He appeared to be in what for Mr. Frith was absolutely top condition—gay, animated, possibly a trifle flushed.

  ‘Well, young man,’ he asked, ‘what was H.E. saying to you? Offered you the Acting Governorship yet?’ Mr. Frith dropped his voice a little. ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ he said. ‘Won’t know the place when he gets back.’ He paused. ‘Probably won’t know ourselves, either.’

  The remark struck Mr. Frith as being funny; indeed, very funny. He laughed a lot over it, and splilt some of his champagne down his trouser-leg. That struck him as rather funny, too.

  ‘Looks bad,’ he admitted. ‘Very bad. But its the glass really. The shape, you know. Too shallow. Doesn’t hold the stuff properly. All slops out.’

  While he was speaking he had caught sight of Native Affairs. He began waving. But Native Affairs pretended not to see. He walked away, and Mr. Frith began to follow.

  Harold took this for his opportunity. He was near the door already. Then, as he reached the threshold, he realised suddenly that this would be the last time he would ever see the Long Drawing-room; the last time he would ever see Sir Gardnor, Mr. Frith, any of them. He was filled suddenly by an immense, irrational sadness. He turned and looked back.

  As he did so, he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘I only came down because I thought you might be here,’ it said.

  And immediately afterwards there was Sybil Prosser’s voice.

  ‘You knew he was here,’ she said. ‘I told you.’

  When Harold faced her, he could see at once that Lady Anne had been crying. Her eyes were still red-looking. But the mascara was fresh on her lashes, and she seemed anything but miserable now; defiant, rather.

  ‘You know why he isn’t taking me?’ she asked.

  Harold shook his head.

  ‘Because I might see my Timothy,’ she told him. ‘That’s what he is afraid of. He knows Timothy likes me better.’

  ‘Are we going inside?’ Sybil Prosser asked pointedly.

  ‘No,’ Lady Anne told her. ‘He’s in there. I just want to talk to Harold.’ She rested her hand on Harold’s arm for a moment. ‘You can get me a glass of champagne if you like,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t mind that a bit.’

  When he returned, Lady Anne and Sybil Prosser were standing face to face.

  ‘If you’re going to be perfectly horrible, you can go to bed,’ Lady Anne was saying. ‘I don’t want you near me. You might as well go to bed in any case. Harold and I have got plenty to talk about, haven’t we?’

  She turned towards him, and Harold found himself smiling back at her. Then Lady Anne remembered Sybil Prosser.

  ‘Oh do go to bed,’ she told her. ‘You’ll only go on telling me I’m drinking too much. It’s all you’ve said the whole evening.’

  ‘Good-night then.’

  Harold watched the long yellow neck and loose dangling arms of Sybil Prosser as she walked away from them down the blue carpet of the corridor.

  ‘Oh God, now I’ve gone and upset her,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what that means. Sybil can be very spiteful.’

  Two late guests, a little breathless after the stairs, were being shown into the drawing-room. Lady Anne laid her hand upon his arm.

  ‘We can’t just stand here,’ she told him. ‘We’d better go into the library.’

  As soon as they were inside, she closed the door behind her.

  ‘Nobody’ll want to come in here,’ she remarked. ‘They’re all over on the other side. Besides, he thinks I’m in bed.’

  She was close to him, and she was stroking the lapels of his coat. It was the backs of her fingers that she used when she was stroking, he noticed.

  ‘Dear Harold,’ she said.

  ‘Dear Anne.’

  ‘Don’t you want to kiss me?’

  She stayed there in his arms, looking up at him.

  ‘You’re a lot more important to me than you realise.’

  He kissed her again.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think I should be here.’

  ‘It’s your party.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I mean be here at all. Anywhere. I was going to kill myself. I tried once before, didn’t Sybil tell you? It’s no secret.’ Everybody knows about it.’

  She was facing him as she was speaking. Her hands were raised to her face, and she was screwing up an earring.

  ‘And it wouldn’t have gone wrong this time. I know how many you have to take to finish you.’ She paused. ‘But with you here, I shan’t have to now, shall I?’

  Chapter 13

  To get onto the Coronation Flyer, there was a good deal more to it than merely buying a railway ticket.

  For a start, there were the night-sleepers. The whole of the wagon-lit and wagon-restaurant side had been let off to a separate concessionnaire with a one-storey wooden office block some fifty feet down the platform from the booking hall. The two administrations were entirely separate. And both were eager for business. In consequence, travellers not infrequently found themselves with a perfectly valid ticket, but with nowhere to eat or sleep for the two-and-a-half days of the journey; or, alternatively, with a de luxe single sleeper compartment, all duly booked and dated, but with no train actually running on the day in question.

  In an effort to overcome the difficulty, the Royal Central African Railroad
had arranged for the installation of a telephone service between the two offices. The instruments were black, shiny and securely padlocked to the iron window-bars.

  Harold presented himself before the R.C.A.R. ticket counter shortly after mid-day, an hour at which he judged that the white population would be absent. He was right. But he had reckoned without the black population: they were absent, too.

  With some difficulty, he finally found the Station Master. No, the Station Master explained, the issue of tickets was not his responsibility; under his general supervision, of course yes, but directly no. He would, however, be delighted to find, if not the senior ticket-clerk himself, at least a highly-trained and qualified assistant.

  Harold waited. An eager and affable young man, the stand-in booking-clerk came leaping over the tracks, his striped shirt-tails flying. He would attend to Harold immediately, he said; at once; just as soon as he was able to locate the key.

  It was the Station Master who had it. A moment later, the little doors behind the metal grille of the guichet were flung open, and the booking-clerk was sitting there, all smiles, with his fountain-pen at the ready.

  ‘I want a First single on Wednesday for Nucca.’

  ‘Very sorry, sah. No trains today to Nucca.’

  ‘Not today. Wednesday.’

  ‘Wednesday, yassah. Coronation Flyer on Wednesday. Where to, sah?’

  ‘Nucca.’

  ‘Yassah. What class, sah?’

  ‘First.’

  ‘Yassah. Single or return, sah?’

  ‘Single.’

  ‘Yassah.’

  The clerk turned his back on Harold and began rummaging about in various pigeon-holes. In some there were tickets that he had never seen before. He took them out and studied them. He folded back the corners of old tickets that had become dog-eared. He re-arranged the Third Returns. He discovered a Luggage Receipt that had been missing for weeks and weeks. Then, with a cry of triumph he found just what he wanted—a First Class Single to Nucca. He came back to his desk with it. He dated it. He corrected the date. He used too much ink. A great black blot like a birthmark spread all over the spongey cardboard. He went back to the pigeon-holes and took out another ticket.