“The things they teach them at the university these days,” said Shrieve.
“Oxford or Cambridge?” said Filmer.
“Oxford. I’ve just finished.”
“A good thing, too, I’d say,” said Osborne. “Another year and you’d be doing your sixteen times table.”
“Excuse me,” said Filmer, “I must have a word with Bloaku.”
“Oh, just a second,” said Shrieve. “I’m delighted to hear about the university taking over, but I wondered if anything has been decided about the interregnum, as it were?”
“I think you’ll find, when the communiqué is published, that everything is perfectly satisfactory,” said Filmer. He smiled his practised smile and moved away.
Clive Carver asked Edward if he was enjoying the party. Shrieve listened to Osborne, who seemed to be testing new jokes.
“It’s interesting,” said Edward cautiously. “Who are all these people? Are they terribly important?”
“Oh, so-so,” said Carver. “No Cabinet Ministers tonight, but a couple of the Shadow Cabinet are supposed to be coming. And that man with the pot belly over there, spilling his champagne, that’s Thomas Didcot, who’s under-secretary of state for something or other. He’s only been an M.P. for three years, but he’s done terribly well. They say he’ll be promoted at the next reshuffle. That woman in the ludicrous hat—no, the one with cherries—is Lady Burgess-Wilson, and the man with her is her ex-husband, Whatshisname Kell. You know, the racehorse owner who was had up for drunken driving last year.”
“What a strange mixture of people.”
“Oh, this is a bit odds-and-endsy—the season’s over, really. Practically everyone has gone on holiday. The Africans are the only objects of social interest left.” He gazed critically round the room. “I think Patrick’s paying off a few old and boring debts, honestly. How’s your glass?”
“Empty.” Edward liked champagne, but found it disappeared very fast. As they went over to the table where the bottles stood, he felt his face was a little flushed.
“How’s your friend Shrieve getting on?” said Carver. “He’s a bit screwy, isn’t he? I mean, did he really have to come all this way to look after his precious Ngulu?”
“Certainly he did,” said Edward. “He felt that the only way to impress people with the urgency of the situation was to explain in person. It’s still not certain whether or not he’s succeeded.”
“Oh come,” said Carver. “He’s obsessed about it, that’s all.”
“He is not,” said Edward angrily. “He’s absolutely right. It’s quite likely that the Ngulu will be attacked and massacred as soon as the threat of force is removed.”
“Sorry, sorry,” said Carver. “I didn’t know you had a personal interest in it all.”
Edward glared at him. He drank some champagne, then he said, “I haven’t. I just happen to have got involved, that’s all. I think Hugh Shrieve is one of the most selfless men I’ve ever met. He’s heart and soul for his people. I don’t know anyone I admire more, and I think what he’s doing is not only necessary, but right and good, too.”
“Wow,” said Carver. He grinned.
Shrieve, standing right behind Edward on the edge of the circle round Bloaku, found himself blushing.
“You can mock if you like,” said Edward. “But all these people here with their twopenny-halfpenny little areas of power, their silver hair and their pot bellies and their under-secretaryships and their ex-husbands and their titles and their newspapers and their money, they haven’t, any of them, got one-quarter of the decency and purpose of Shrieve.” He grabbed a bottle of champagne and filled his glass.
Carver shrugged. He found Edward rather comic. He sidled up to Mallory and said, “I’m afraid I’ve upset Mr Shrieve’s friend. He feels things terribly deeply.”
“Really?” said Mallory, amused. He looked over at Edward, who was standing by himself and feeling ashamed. “One would never have thought it. And they say Shrieve has an African wife, too. Clive, be a dear and get me another drink, would you?”
Shrieve’s ears were burning, but he had no time to think about Edward’s outburst. Bandiku had turned suddenly to him and said, “Mr Shrieve, why have you gone to such trouble to bring the Ngulu to everyone’s attention? You cannot have imagined that they would be overlooked or abandoned. Yet you have acted as though their extinction was one of the main objects of my cousin’s party.”
“I have?” said Shrieve. “Oh dear, that’s certainly not the impression I wanted to give. All I was hoping for was some form of guarantee that in the general rejoicing and so on which will accompany independence—and I assure you I’m in no way an opponent of your cousin or his party—the Ngulu will be given special protection. They’re completely defenceless, as you know, and they’re terrified of their neighbours. You must acknowledge, Mr Bandiku, that their fear is not groundless. There have been many incidents in the past that——”
“The past is the past,” said Bandiku, with a short authoritative gesture. “The chief of the area you refer to is a man of great power and influence. He is old, it is true, but he commands absolute obedience among his followers. He will certainly ensure that no unfortunate incident takes place.”
“May I be frank?” said Shrieve. “The area is far from the capital. The chief is, as you say, an old man. Already there are reports of unrest. It’s my duty, as I see it, to take every possible precaution against an attack on the Ngulu. They don’t have much, but what land is theirs is good land, and I know, and you know, that there are jealous eyes on it. For many years now there has been peace in the area. I believe, and you won’t like me for saying so, I’m sure, that the main reason for the peace we’ve had has been the threat of military intervention at the slightest sign of trouble. The people in the bush just aren’t as sophisticated as those of the capital, Mr Bandiku—you’ll admit that, won’t you? The withdrawal of the British may well seem to them a godsent opportunity to revert to their traditional—traditional harassment of the Ngulu. No one pretends that they like the Ngulu or that they’re not anxious to see the last of them along that stretch of the river.”
“You put your case simply,” said Bandiku. “It is the classic colonialist case. You say you wish to stay in order to preserve order: without your presence all will collapse. It is a traditional justification of colonial régimes.”
“It isn’t I who wish to remain. God knows, I’ve done what I could for the Ngulu all these years, I’m happy among them, I love them. But I don’t mind leaving, and I’m a supporter of independence and long have been. But——”
“But.” Bandiku smiled. “There is always a ‘But’, isn’t there, Mr Shrieve? You wish, naturally, to see your good work carried on. And it will be. Yet you have suggested that there will be riots when the British leave. That my people, in fact, are unfit for self-government.” He raised a hand to silence Shrieve’s protest. “I believe you, Mr Shrieve, when you say your sole object is the protection of these Ngulu. But you will understand what effect your argument has had on other Englishmen. The Ngulu, they are thinking, will be wiped out because the Luagabu are not fit to govern themselves. You talk of the sophisticates of the capital. But we are all of one stock, Mr Shrieve. The argument that applies in the bush applies throughout my country.”
“Oh no, not at all,” said Shrieve eagerly. “Not in the least. I’ve lived for years in your country, Mr Bandiku, I know and trust your people. I have every confidence in the government which will be formed. I’m sure that the police will be efficient, that order will be strictly maintained. It’s simply the few months while things are changing hands that I’m afraid of.”
“You narrow your argument. But there remains a kernel of old-fashioned colonialism, of paternalism. Do you deny it?”
“There is no alternative to paternalism when one is dealing with the Ngulu.”
“Perhaps not. But I am thinking more of your attitude to the sophisticated tribes, Mr Shrieve.”
“If
you find it, then perhaps it’s there. I’m not perfect. I’m not even free from prejudice. I don’t think I shall ever, to be honest, enjoy your Luagabu cooking.” Shrieve saw Bandiku smile thinly. “But I can’t ever feel that it is wrong to have done the things I’ve done or tried to do. You call me patronising and paternal, Mr Bandiku, because my concern for the Ngulu suggests that the Luagabu aren’t capable of resisting the temptation of an attack on their enemies. But either it’s true or it isn’t that the danger exists. Paternalism doesn’t come into it. I can’t help it if I see the matter from a very restricted point of view. If seeing and stating truthfully the possibility of trouble is being old-fashioned and colonialist, then that’s what I am, and proud of it.”
“Bravo, Mr Shrieve,” said Bloaku. He had been quietly listening for several minutes. “It is rare to hear such a passionate statement of disinterestedness. It is sad that not more British officials have been so disinterested in the past. But you will understand what my cousin Mr Bandiku has said. We are what you are pleased to call sophisticated men. Our sophistication makes it all the more difficult to accept your implications against the rest of our tribe. With sophistication goes pride, Mr Shrieve. You would not have us ashamed of our ancestry, I hope?”
“Of course not,” said Shrieve. “I can only hope, Mr Bloaku, that just as pride and sophistication can go together, so can passion and disinterestedness.”
“Something will be arranged,” said Bloaku. “You need not be alarmed any more. You have made your case honestly, as you saw it. I think,” he added, turning to his cousin, “that we can put our sophistication before our pride as far as Mr Shrieve is concerned. The protection he asks for will be given.”
Shrieve felt tears prick suddenly at his eyeballs. He saw the two African faces, one smiling, one solemn, through a blur of happiness and relief. He took Bloaku’s hand and shook it silently.
“Thank you,” he stammered. Then he shook Bandiku’s hand.
Bloaku put his arm round Shrieve’s shoulder and said, “Now everyone can see that we are friends, Mr Shrieve.”
From where he was talking to a girl who said she was the wife of an M.P., Edward watched Bloaku’s large black hand pat Shrieve affectionately.
“Look at that,” he said.
“Oh, Ferdy being social again,” said the M.P.’s wife. “He’s a great one for backslapping in drawing-rooms.”
“Ferdy? Is that his name?”
“Yes, didn’t you know? He was at Cambridge with my husband. They used to play squash together.”
“It looks as though everything’s going to be all right,” said Edward. “Poor Hugh Shrieve, he’s been terribly worried.”
“Is that Shrieve? The small man, with the hair sticking up at the back? I’ve heard so much about him lately from Patrick and people. I’d imagined him as a more impressive-looking man. They do say he’s gone almost native, with a black wife and everything.”
“Do they?” said Edward. He looked at the elegant woman with her shiny black bag and her gloves draped over her wrist. “Yes, I’ve heard that myself, but I dare say there’s nothing in it.” He wondered why he’d said that, and added, “He’s a most remarkable man, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure. It’s so sad for those people. After all they’ve done, to be thrown out without so much as a thank-you. They’ve deserved something better. What on earth does a man like that do when he comes back to England?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Edward. “But I should’ve thought he was the sort of man we needed.”
“Don’t people like that get rather narrow-minded, living in the depths of the jungle and so on? They must find it very hard to adapt to our complicated world.”
“As long as they stick to their principles they ought to be all right. I sometimes think they’re the only people who have any principles left.”
“Oh come,” said the M.P.’s wife. “You young people are really too cynical. There’s nothing wrong with life in England. I mean, look at France.”
“People behave well in England for the most part, it’s true. But do you think they really feel about their principles any more? Don’t they accept the standards simply because they’re convenient and seemed to have worked quite well in the past? A man like Shrieve actually believes in what he’s doing.”
The woman looked at him, then at her watch. “I’d love to continue this conversation, it’s really most interesting. I take it you know Mr Shrieve? But I simply have to move on. We’re dining somewhere inconceivable—Highbury—and I don’t even know how to get there. There’s one thing to be said for marrying a politician, you learn a lot of geography.” She smiled at Edward and said goodbye.
Shrieve was talking to Dennis Moreland, and Edward went to join them.
“He’s a decent bloke, Bloaku,” Moreland was saying.
“Tell me,” said Shrieve, “what on earth got into you to write that article the way you did?”
“Oh, the proprietor came in. His sister owns some shares, or is married to a man who owns some shares, or something like that, and these shares are in some mining company which has interests in central Africa, and you can guess the rest. He made some ‘suggestions’, so I wrote what he wanted. He’s a fool.”
“But you allow yourself to be dictated to like that? I thought journalists were always crusading for freedom of speech.”
“Look,” said Moreland, “if I’d resigned every time I’d been asked to write something I didn’t wholeheartedly believe in, I’d have been through every paper in London by now. It wasn’t as though it mattered. Everyone knows the conference has been a great success.”
“What do you mean, it wasn’t as though it mattered?” said Shrieve. “How can you say such a thing?”
“I get used to it,” said Moreland.
Shrieve looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and turned away. He saw Edward and said, “That’s your new England for you.”
“It’s not my bloody England,” said Edward. “And anyway, it’s not even new, it’s just the old one in a new hat. Surely it’s traditional for the owners of newspapers to dictate policy?”
“Policy perhaps. But the man didn’t have to put his name to it, did he?”
“Maybe not. Look, I think I’m going to push off. I don’t know anyone here, and I haven’t liked those I’ve met. How did your chat with Bloaku go?”
“I think it’s all going to be all right,” said Shrieve. “Really and truly I think it’s going to be all right. When Bloaku says a thing, he means it. It sounds a terrible thing to say, but I’d trust him more than a hundred Sir Sebastian Filmers or Patrick Mallorys.”
“Perhaps,” said Edward, “some of the principles which built the empire, but which now seem mysteriously to have vanished, remain as young seedlings in our ancient possessions. Excuse me, I’m a bit tight. And I’ve got to go and play at a party after dinner. When shall I see you?”
“Oh, ring me up any time. I don’t know what I shall do. I suppose I’ll hang around till the conference issues its communiqué or whatever it’s called. They think that’ll be Friday. And then I have to go to a naval reunion on Friday night. So I’ll be in London till the end of the week, anyway.”
“There’s nothing more to be done?”
“Nothing,” said Shrieve. “We’ve done everything that can possibly be imagined. Short of arming the Ngulu with cobalt bombs, we are now in the hands of history.”
“You sound a bit tight yourself,” said Edward. “See you, then.”
He went to shake hands with Mallory, but he was too busy talking to notice him. Avoiding Carver, who followed him across the room with his eyes in a way which annoyed him, he said goodbye to Lady Georgina instead. Then he went down the stairs and into the street. The long rich cars gleamed in the twilight like sleek black rocks, the chrome fenders and grilles like foam and seaweed.
I really must be tight, Edward thought. To prove it, he hailed a taxi.
*
“I said, Mr Martin, when I
appointed you in sole charge of the Sway, that I did not expect many conferences between us to prove necessary. You are wondering, therefore, why I have summoned you here this morning.”
Fred Martin had never been in Mr Brachs’s office before, and he was awestruck. He had stumbled crossing the carpet, and his terror on regaining his balance and seeing the enormous dark red picture louring at him had made him stumble again. He had arrived breathless at Mr Brachs’s desk, and now, perched uncomfortably on one of the leather chairs, with his eyes on a level with Mr Brachs’s bottom ribs, he felt like a schoolboy in front of the headmaster, with no idea why he’d been summoned, but a hundred fearful possibilities fluttering in his stomach.
“I have been extremely perturbed of late, Mr Martin, by the amount of disloyalty within my organisation. I find very few people are to be trusted. I am aware of infiltration at all levels. I suspect secrets are being sold. There are spies among us, Mr Martin. And there are gross, perverted rumours being deliberately spread as to my mental capacity. These, as you will recognise, are the standard tactics of international Communism. They are to be expected. But when the managing director of one of my largest concerns is spreading the foul lies, then ruthlessness, and only ruthlessness, will save us.”
Martin stared at him, seriously alarmed. The eyes, inscrutable behind the thick lenses, did not waver in returning the stare. Martin switched his gaze to the amber television.
“At the same time, Mr Martin, a campaign of economic sabotage has been launched. There is an extraordinary and unexplained amount of wastage. Each item, taken alone, seems inconsiderable. But when all the items are taken together, the amount is colossal. Typewriter ribbons, paper-clips, carbon paper—insignificant things, you may be thinking. But in an empire as large as mine, they can add up to an enormous sum. Extravagance and sabotage are rife in every department.”
Martin could think of nothing to say.
“There are all too few subordinates whom I feel I can trust at a time like this, Mr Martin. The enemy is within. I trust you. I want you, therefore, to take especial care in all your activities not to betray, inadvertently, any of our secrets. If you think it wise, have the locks on your drawers and filing cabinets altered. The infiltrators must be thwarted. They must be discovered. Counter-espionage must begin.”
The White Father Page 29
