Short of Glory

by Alan Judd

  Clifford had the air of a man who had made it all himself. ‘Not bad, eh? Thought you’d like it. Some of it belongs to Whelk, of course, but even so it’s not bad.’ His tone was warmer and more approving. ‘Come and meet the wife.’

  The wife was sitting in a cane chair below the veranda, hidden from the dining-room by one of the creeper-covered pillars. Because Clifford was unappealing Patrick had unthinkingly assumed his wife would be similar. Instead she was slim and lithe with close-cropped brown hair and a sharp quick face. She looked momentarily harassed, as if annoyed with herself, but smiled as she extended her hand. ‘Sandy,’ she said before Clifford could introduce her. ‘Coffee?’ Patrick accepted gratefully. She went into the house to tell Sarah.

  Clifford eased himself into one of the cane chairs, loosened his belt and undid his trousers so that his stomach could expand. He surveyed the garden and pool. ‘You’re bloody lucky. Battenburg is a marvellous place for a bachelor.’ He glanced in the direction of the house. ‘Wouldn’t mind a few months unaccompanied myself, I can tell you.’ He nodded and smiled so that his eyes nearly disappeared.

  Patrick was still trying to imagine Clifford and Sandy making love when she returned. ‘You look exhausted. Was the flight awful?’

  ‘They always are,’ said Clifford. ‘Flying’s always awful. He’s not used to the altitude yet.’

  Patrick described the flight and the mystery of his not being met. She laughed abruptly and loudly, one hand on her breasts and the other shielding her eyes against the sun. ‘The ambassador’s such a fool. He’s probably forgotten all about you. You’ll have to get used to that sort of thing.’

  ‘He is not a fool,’ said Clifford slowly. ‘He is sometimes absent-minded. I daresay on this occasion it was his driver who forgot.’

  ‘He is a fool, he’s a silly old buffoon.’

  ‘He is an intellectually distinguished man.’

  ‘All right, he’s a clever fool. That’s worse. And he’s completely helpless without his wife. But the less said about her the better.’ The sudden petulance made Sandy’s face look thinner.

  Clifford frowned. ‘Darling, the less said the better, full stop. He is not a fool and he is not helpless. He is our ambassador.’ ‘He’s also a husband and he’s as helpless as most.’

  Patrick stared at the clear blue water of the pool.

  Clifford folded his arms, crossed his legs and turned half away from his wife. He spoke with weary finality. ‘The ambassador is an intelligent man and he’s good at his job. I don’t think we should say more than that in front of a newly arrived member of staff.’

  ‘Pity he’s not so good at real life.’ Sandy seemed cross with herself now and her petulance made her plain. No one said anything for a while but then she remarked quietly that the children had been playing up with Sarah that morning. Clifford grunted. She glanced coldly at him, then looked over Patrick’s head and smiled.

  Aware that someone was approaching from behind, Patrick stood. His shoulder caught on something, there was a cry and a crash of china.

  A stout black lady was on her knees before him, picking crockery from the grass and putting it back on the tray. Her round face creased with anguish as she looked up at him.

  ‘Massa, I am so sorry.’

  Patrick bent to help but almost made her stumble again as she got up. ‘Is all right, massa, is all right,’ she said quickly. She wore a clean blue dress and a white apron. Her heavy spectacles were askew and she straightened them hastily with one hand. Patrick had not realised that black people could blush. ‘It was my fault,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. I’m very sorry.’

  Sandy put her hand on Patrick’s arm. ‘It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Only one cup and saucer gone. Sarah saved the rest.’

  ‘I am very sorry, madam, I am very sorry.’

  ‘You did very well to save them, Sarah. They’re not Mr Whelk’s best so we can call it fair wear and tear. They’re easy to replace.’

  Sarah turned away with the tray. ‘I get another cup.’

  ‘That’s right but leave the tray here. I’ll sort it out.’

  Sandy spoke simply and clearly as though to a child. When Sarah returned Patrick was formally introduced to her as Mr Stubbs.

  They shook hands and Sarah curtsied. ‘I am very pleased, massa. I am very sorry for the cup.’

  ‘It’s not important. It’s my fault for being so clumsy. I’ll buy another cup.’ He tried not to speak with the same obvious care as Sandy.

  Sarah smiled broadly. ‘Yes, massa, another cup.’ She backed away towards the house, glancing at Sandy to see whether anything else was wanted. Her bow legs seemed too thin for her wide body. She held her hands before her as in prayer but she was still smiling.

  Sandy poured the coffee. ‘She was very nervous about your coming, quite worked up about it. She’s never looked after a young man before. Arthur was different, of course. I keep telling her that young bachelors are all right’ – she glanced up as she handed him his cup – ‘that, in fact, they’re no problem really.’

  Clifford shovelled several spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. ‘Ever had servants before?’

  Patrick hesitated. It probably looked as if he was trying to remember. ‘No.’

  ‘Thought not. You’ll get used to it. Never apologise to them.’

  ‘But it was my fault.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It seems to me that it does.’

  Sandy took the sugar bowl from Clifford. ‘Sarah’s very good, not like some. I was brought up in Kenya and I’ve never known anyone as good as her. She’ll look after you well. I’m sure you’ll get on.’

  Snap, the dog, was next to be introduced. He looked like a large black labrador but the ridgeback breeding showed in the distinct line of raised fur that ran from head to tail. Clifford took an immediate and obvious pleasure in being stern with him, which was not difficult because he had been well trained by previous occupants of the house. He sniffed suspiciously at Patrick but permitted his back to be patted.

  ‘He’s getting on a bit but he’s a very good guard dog,’ said Clifford. ‘Once people know you’ve got a good dog you tend not to be burgled. But watch him with guests. He’s all right if he sees them introduced into the house but if they just walk in he has them. Really has them, not just barking. Whites as well. Doesn’t discriminate.’

  Patrick stopped patting. ‘Do dogs normally discriminate?’

  ‘A lot do, ridgebacks especially. They only go for blacks. I don’t know whether they’re trained to do it or whether they just pick it up, you know, sense it. Blacks smell different to us, anyway.’

  Patrick imagined Rachel’s and Maurice’s reaction.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Sandy, smiling herself. She now looked more pretty than plain.

  ‘I was thinking of some people I know. Is Snap safe with Sarah?’

  ‘No love lost but they tolerate each other. I don’t think Africans like dogs in the way we do.’

  ‘I’ll show you the pool,’ Clifford announced, doing up his trousers as he walked off.

  Patrick had an idea that swimming-pools needed some sort of maintenance, but no idea of what was involved. Clifford was quick to display both knowledge and enthusiasm. He detailed the required chemical balance, demonstrated how to use the chemical test kit without getting cancer, how to get leaves (jacaranda) off the surface, how to work the pump and how to flush the dirty water out of the system.

  ‘It leaks,’ he explained, ‘so you need to top it up every day and readjust the chemical balance. The PSA won’t pay to have it repaired because they’re cutting the pool budget but you buy the chemicals out of another budget so they keep paying for them quite happily. Actually, it’s easier than it sounds to look after. Deuteronomy, the gardener, can do a certain amount like getting leaves out and topping up but flushing and vacuum-cleaning is a bit complicated for him.’

  ‘Vacuum-cleaning?’

  ‘No problem. I�
�ll show you.’ Clifford energetically assembled poles, suction-pads and hoses, then demonstrated. ‘There you are. Simple. Have a go.’

  Patrick had a go. Nothing worked and he got his sleeve wet.

  Clifford took the pole. ‘There’s a knack. Let me show you.’

  He demonstrated deftly again. As he pulled the fourteen-foot pole from the water he caught Patrick in the mouth with the rear end. ‘Sorry. You okay?’

  Patrick nodded whilst groping for his handkerchief.

  Clifford continued his demonstration. ‘There you are, you see. Do it as often as it needs it. A lot depends on the weather.’

  ‘And on the jacarandas?’

  ‘You’re learning already.’ He made a few more sweeps of the pool whilst Patrick dabbed at his lip. ‘Mind you, you’re going to be too busy in the embassy to spend much time playing around like this, what with Arthur’s consular stuff and your share of the chancery work. Up to now Philip Longhurst, the second secretary, has been having to do what you’ll be doing. I do the more important stuff myself, of course, because the ambassador’s a bit of a stickler in some ways. Don’t run away with the idea that because of all the Whelk business you’re going to take off and play the detective whenever you feel like it. The work of the embassy must go on. There’s not much room in the Diplomatic Service for this sort of extra-marital stuff with Lost and Found and what-have-you.’

  There was a sudden furious barking. A small black man in baggy green overalls sprinted across the lawn with Snap ten yards behind and gaining. The man reached the wall that divided the backyard from the garden and scrambled over. The dog’s jaws closed a few inches behind the trailing trouser-leg. Snap stood on his hind legs against the wall, barking furiously. Sandy was on her feet and calling to him, ineffectually.

  Patrick hastily stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket and was about to set off in pursuit of the supposed burglar when he noticed that his host was in no hurry. Clifford switched off the pump and rested the vacuum cleaner carefully against the iron fence that surrounded the pool. ‘You mustn’t let Deuteronomy and Snap into the garden together. Snap won’t have it.’

  They walked up the lawn. Sandy and Clifford argued as to which was more at fault in not telling the other of Deuteronomy’s arrival. Clifford ignored his wife’s repetitions and pointed at a tree. ‘Said to be one of the oldest jacarandas in Battenburg,’ he told Patrick.

  Snap was still barking when they reached the wall. Clifford shouted to him to stop. The dog barked twice more before trotting off towards the rubbish-heap looking pleased with himself. The ridge of hair along his back bristled like a boar’s.

  Deuteronomy stood in the far corner of the whitewashed courtyard. He was small, wizened and wiry, no longer young but not obviously old. He grinned shamefacedly and rubbed his hands.

  ‘I am sorry, massa.’

  Patrick was introduced. Deuteronomy clung to his hand and greeted him with a prolonged smile and a long-drawn-out, admiring, ‘Massa.’ It was as if Patrick were endowed with great beauty or fabulous wealth.

  ‘Deuteronomy will always do precisely what you tell him, neither less nor more,’ said Clifford.

  Deuteronomy nodded and grinned enthusiastically. ‘Yes, massa, you tell me and I do. Not more, massa. Always what you tell me.’

  Patrick knew nothing of gardens. He smiled and nodded confidently. ‘Good.’

  Deuteronomy grinned even more enthusiastically. ‘I am happy for you, massa.’

  ‘Good. I’m pleased.’ They both nodded and shook hands again.

  Clifford pointed to the single-storey building that formed one side of the courtyard. ‘Sarah’s quarters. They can be inspected at any time by the Native Administration Board and you can be fined if they’re not up to a certain standard. Sarah’s are all right, bigger than most. Bedroom, bathroom, sitting-room. She uses the house kitchen.’

  From within the house came the sound of a protesting child followed by Sarah’s scolding voice. She appeared at the kitchen door, wiping her hands on her white apron, and addressed Deuteronomy in another language. He nodded and replied, smiling uncertainly now. She looked at Clifford. ‘I give him his tea now, massa?’

  ‘Yes, yes, then put Snap away so that he can get on with his work. I’m going to take Mr Stubbs to the embassy.’

  Patrick waited in the large kitchen whilst Clifford went away ‘to make himself comfortable’, as he put it. Sarah introduced the two fair-haired little girls, one aged seven and the other three. Sandy had disappeared.

  ‘Are they a lot of work for you?’ Patrick asked.

  She laughed and shook her head, ruffling the hair of the smaller one who stood staring solemnly at Patrick. The other swung on Sarah’s arm, as if trying to pull her over. ‘Not bad work, massa, they are nice piccaninny. But sometimes they are heavy pull.’

  ‘Heavy pull?’

  She nodded. ‘Sometimes when they are difficult with each other.’

  Clifford shouted for Sandy from somewhere within the house. Sandy called out that she was in the bar, adding quickly, ‘I’m just getting them ready for later, that’s all.’

  Clifford walked through the hall and said something angrily. Then he called peremptorily for Patrick.

  ‘Time to start your first day,’ he said.

  4

  Patrick had imagined embassies the world over to be stately buildings set in parkland or at the very least in Georgian terraces. The British embassy in Battenburg occupied the ninth floor of a twenty-one storey block in the centre of the city. Clifford drove into the underground car-park beneath and they descended several levels, turning sharp corners past rows of parked cars.

  As they turned the last corner he braked hard enough to make the tyres squeal. A black Jaguar was slewed across their front, its nose against a concrete pillar and its tail against a parked car. A little to the left of it was an empty parking space.

  At the wheel was a man of late middle age with wild white hair. He had a tanned wrinkled skin and large watery brown eyes. He stared as if the arrival of another vehicle in the carpark was an inexplicable phenomenon.

  The ambassador,’ Clifford said in a low voice. ‘I can’t think what he’s doing with the Jaguar. He’s normally driven in the Rolls. Never drives himself unless he has to. Perhaps something’s happened to Simon and that’s why you weren’t picked up.’

  Clifford got out and hurried forward, his body slightly bent and an expression of barely restrained admiration on his face. Sir Wilfrid Eagle got out of the Jaguar, a slow operation for so tall a man. A few strands of hair flopped against his cheek. His grey pinstripe was well cut to his lean figure but hopelessly crumpled, the pockets bulging. As he walked away from his car he raised one hand in its direction as though tied to it by a string. This action lifted his jacket so that his shirt-tail was revealed. His other hand went through the motions of smoothing his hair.

  ‘It’s got stuck again,’ he said in a loud drawl. ‘Won’t fit anywhere.’

  Clifford was eagerly deferential. ‘Shall I have a go, sir? It’s sometimes easier if someone else does it.’

  ‘Would you? Awfully kind.’

  Clifford got briskly into the Jaguar and moved it backwards and forwards several times, but the few inches between the concrete pillar and the next car gave him little room. It was not clear how the Jaguar could have got into this position. There was a great deal of revving. Clifford’s brow puckered and his lips compressed.

  Patrick thought he had better introduce himself. He approached the ambassador with what he hoped was appropriate deference. The ambassador glanced at him quickly then fixed his gaze resolutely on the Jaguar. It looked very like a physical manifestation of what newspapers called a diplomatic snub. Patrick wondered what rule he could have transgressed and then remembered what he had read in the handbook in London: he should always be to the left of his ambassador. Or was it the right? Whichever it was, he must have approached from the wrong side.

  The ambassador continued to stare at C
lifford, who was beginning to sweat with the effort of twisting and turning. Patrick took a couple of steps backwards and approached from the other side. He was about to say good day when Sir Wilfrid spoke quietly out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘You decided to come after all, then?’

  The tone was enquiring rather than sarcastic. The ambassador did not look angry. He did not look at Patrick at all. Patrick hesitated. ‘There was a little confusion at the airport, sir.’

  There was no response. Was he waiting to be called Your Excellency? To relieve the awkwardness Patrick signalled Clifford to stop as the boot of the Jaguar just touched the car behind. Clifford edged forward again. The silence continued.

  ‘Takin’ a chance, ain’t you? Blowing your cover and all that?’ Still the ambassador did not look at him.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t understand.’

  The ambassador fished in his jacket pockets and pulled out a pair of spectacles. One arm was Sellotaped to the frame. He slowly turned towards Patrick. ‘Lord. Thought you were the other chap. Who are you?’

  ‘Patrick Stubbs, sir, the new third secretary. I arrived this morning.’

  ‘Did you, by Jove? Well, that explains it. I thought at first you were the chappie I had breakfast with. Wondered why he’d turned up here when we’d agreed he should keep away.’ He tapped his spectacles. ‘I should wear these things more, you see. Always take them off for driving. Pleased to meet you at last.’ They shook hands. The ambassador bent his head conspiratorially and spoke quickly. ‘Chappie I had breakfast with was the one from Lost and Found who’s come out to find poor Arthur. The driver picked him up at the airport in mistake for you. Same plane, you see, and a young chap like yourself. Easily done. White faces look alike to Africans, like black ones to us. Or like white ones to me without my specs. Nice young chap, cheerful, determined, not short on confidence. Halfway through breakfast before we realised we were talking at cross-purposes. Problem then of what to do, of course, bearing in mind we have to keep him a secret from the Lower Africans. Had him smuggled out in the boot of the Rolls in the end. Just have to hope he wasn’t spotted on the way in but with luck they’ll have made the same mistake as me and thought he was you. Simon then went back to the airport to find you. Must be still there. That’s why I drove myself in.’